


Ladies of the Ring: Return of the King

by Nelsynoo



Series: Ladies of the Ring [3]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Annamir and Nelwen have potty mouths, Epic Friendship, Excessive Swearing, Hints at romance, Multi, Original Character(s), POV Female Character, POV Multiple, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, Poor Decision Making Skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 26
Words: 34,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelsynoo/pseuds/Nelsynoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My best friend, Anna, and I were watching Lord of the Rings and decided that the Fellowship, while well meaning, is a bit of a flailing mess. We therefore came to the sound conclusion that had Elrond thought to invite Anna and I to Rivendell, we could have been rid of the Ring in only a couple of weeks and with minimal casualties.</p><p>This started as a joke between Anna and I but escalated into something epic. This is just self-indulgent, highly irreverent (but diligently researched!) silliness.</p><p>You should probably read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5037655/chapters/11580388">Fellowship</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5104364/chapters/11741966">Two Towers</a> before starting Return of the King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hate to start Return of the King on a boring talk-y chapter – but sometimes they're required to figure out what everyone is going to do next.

Annamir felt like death. Her head swam, her stomach roiled; every sound was like a Nazgul cry, every torch burned her eyes like she was staring unblinking into the sun itself. Worst of all, people kept trying to _talk_ to her, when all she wanted to do was feel sorry for herself while attempting to fit together the mass of jumbled images she had in her head from the night before. She remembered drinking (of course), some enthusiastic dancing and even more enthusiastic singing. She remembered standing on a table for a time, talking with great fervour about – something. Whatever it was had earned her a great deal of applause so clearly she’d been bloody eloquent.

The fellowship stood in the centre of the Meduseld’s Feasting Hall, arms crossed, brows furrowed, deep in discussion with Theoden and his inner circle about what to do next. With Saruman’s assault on the kingdom of Rohan now at an end, all eyes were on the kingdom of Gondor. For many years had the forces of Mordor marauded through Ithilien and besieged the city of Osgiliath. Spooked by Saruman’s demise, Sauron would strive for a decisive victory against men. And, of course, the Ring still needed to be dealt with. While the fellowship never admitted to the men of Rohan that Nelwen carried the Ring of Power (too risky, even among allies), it was stressed that they had important business to see to in the east.

Shortly following the battle for Helm’s Deep, a messenger had arrived with news from Isengard. The Ents, spurned by Gandalf’s encouragements and distressed by Saruman’s careless decimation of the natural beauty surrounding Orthanc, had taken Isengard, destroying the foundries and taking Saruman captive. Gandalf had immediately departed to gleam some intelligence from his former friend, hoping to ascertain Sauron’s intensions. Unfortunately, no intelligence had been forthcoming and the fellowship and Theoden’s advisors now postulated and theorised with little concrete evidence.

Even without proof to support his claims, Gandalf spoke with conviction. “Our victory at Helm’s Deep has shown Sauron one thing: men are not as weak as he once supposed. There is courage still among the race of men. Perhaps even enough strength to challenge him. Sauron will not risk the peoples of Middle Earth uniting under one banner. He will move to strike the city of Minas Tirith, destroy it in one fell swoop!” Gandalf swung out his arms to punctuate his words, his long white cloak billowing dramatically around him. Turning to fix King Theoden with a pointed stare, he concluded, “if the beacons of Gondor are lit, Rohan must be ready to march to war.”

Hush descended on the group as they pondered what Gandalf had said. Theoden stood with head bowed in thought, his hands clasped behind his back. “Tell me,” he began softly, shifting his weight in discomfort, “why should we ride to the aide of those who did not come to ours? What do we owe Gondor?”

Anna felt a surge of anger at Theoden’s words, the implication that the men of Gondor had not come to Rohan’s aide because they were vindictive and not because they were busy keeping Mordor’s army at bay. From the look on the faces of the other members of the fellowship, they shared her anger. Aragorn, in particular, seemed furious, but also disappointed.

“I will go,” said Aragorn, “they must be warned!” The strength in his proclamation made Anna smile; she was apparently warming to the man.

“Not you,” said Gandalf, expression pinched, “they _will_ be warned.” The wizard moved closer to Aragorn, lowered his voice and looked meaningfully at him. “You must come to Minas Tirith by another route; follow the coast.”

Annamir loved Gandalf dearly, trusted him completely, and would gladly follow him wherever he bade. But his penchant for cryptic riddles was infuriating and Annamir, suffering from her indulgences from the night before, was lacking in patience. “So what’s the plan? Are we all heading to Minas Tirith?” she snapped.

“No,” said Gandalf, “Aragorn and I have business in Minas Tirith. You and Nelwen will continue to North Ithilien and onto Mordor; your task cannot wait.”

The men of Rohan looked at the fellowship with a combination of wariness and curiosity. If they had suspicions of what the fellowship’s quest entailed, they kept their reservations to themselves. 

“Annamir and I head to Mordor alone?” asked Nelwen, her voice sounding uncharacteristically small.

Gandalf looked at the elf almost apologetically. “Things are in motion that cannot be undone. Aragorn and I _must_ ride to Minas Tirith. And you must complete the task with which you have been charged.”

Nelwen nodded with resignation, stroked idly at her tunic where the Ring hung hidden below. Annamir tried to send her a reassuring smile but Nelwen did not look at her, did not look at anything, only stared into the middle distance. Surveying her friends, their faces pinched and shoulders bowed, Annamir felt the weight of responsibility settling upon her. The revelries of the night before suddenly seemed very long ago. 


	2. Farewell to Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annamir gets maudlin.

The fellowship, barring Aragorn, left Edoras the same day. Freeing Rohan from the nefarious influence of Saruman had diverted the fellowship’s attention for several weeks and now the urgent need to destroy the Ring laid heavily upon them. At first the three of them travelled together, riding across the Eastfold toward Gondor. The gently rolling plains of Rohan made for easy riding and they made quick progress, stopping rarely and briefly. At night they rested only a few hours, rising well before dawn to continue on their journey.

The fellowship parted ways at the Mering Stream, the gently plodding boundary river between Rohan and Gondor. With heavy heart, Anna gave Gandalf a lingering hug, suddenly struck with the realisation that she would be travelling into the depths of Mordor without him. Even when the wizard had left them at Lorien to travel alone to Fangorn, Annamir had known that it was only a temporary parting, that they would meet again for the final push to Mount Doom. But now she was flushed with mild panic at the thought that she and her dear friend may never again meet. Over their long friendship, Gandalf and Anna had travelled to many dangerous places, done many ill-advised things, but they’d done them _together_ , and that had made the impossible seem almost commonplace.

When Gandalf galloped east across Anorien to Minas Tirith, Annamir stood and watched for as long as she could, watched until she could no longer make out his starling white form against the dusky, darkening sky. The delay was far longer than was really sensible considering their hurry but Annamir wanted to make sure her eyes remembered this moment, what was possibly the final moment between two great friends. Nelwen only waited patiently, not saying a word, not trying to hurry her along or offer empty platitudes, and for that Anna was immensely grateful. With Gandalf out of sight, the women mounted their horses again and journeyed north-east, following the Entwash river to the Wetwang marches. At the marshes they would be able to ford across the Great River into North Ithilien.

Upon reaching the marshes, the two women came to the distressing realisation that the horses would be unable to traverse the treacherous wetlands. Parting with the horses caused great sadness, both because they were attached to the beasts and because they were daunted by the prospect of carrying on to Mordor entirely on foot. Nelwen was particularly devastated to say goodbye to the mighty Bill, who had served them steadfastly since Rivendell.

“Namaarie, Bill,” Nelwen said gloomily as she stroked his forelock, head nuzzled against the side of his neck.

“Don’t worry,” said Annamir with a forced cheeriness that she did not feel. “Bill is a magnificent horse. He will find his way home easily enough.”

“I know he’ll find his way home,” Nelwen said, giving him a firm pat to send him on his way, “I’m just not sure whether we will.” She threw Annamir a sad smile, tight and thin, and the sight of it made Annamir feel cold, skin clammy and prickled. 

Annamir had been feeling oddly melancholy since they’d left Edoras. She’d been saddened to say goodbye to Eowyn, the two women having become very close during their time together. She’d even felt sad parting ways with Aragorn! Over the last few weeks his hostility towards his own people had lessened considerably and Annamir had begun to see in him a great ally, a staunch defender of men and a stalwart friend to have at her back. With the departure of Gandalf and the recent loss of their horses, Annamir began to feel the first icy fingers of doubt rake along her spine.

“You’re very quiet,” Nelwen said at last after days of only perfunctory conversation.

Annamir thought about trying to dodge the implied question, not wanting to discuss her doubts for fear that discussing them made them real. But Nelwen was her friend and she owed her an honest answer. “Saying farewell to our friends… I have the horrible feeling that I will never see them again. I don’t know why, but I just can’t shake the doubt, this sneaking pessimism. I know I’m just being foolish-“

“You’re not – being foolish, that is,” interrupted Nel. “I too feel a similar disquiet. I think it’s inevitable the nearer we get to Mordor.” Nelwen took Annamir’s gloved hand in her own, gave it a squeeze. “We won’t fail; we’ll see them again.”

“We’re too formidable to fail,” grinned Annamir.

“You mean too _stubborn_ ,” corrected Nelwen with her own crooked smirk.

The two women laughed then for the first time in far too long, loud and grateful, tinged with the slightest desperation, a hint of hysteria. Hand-in-hand, they drudged through the marshes, swinging their arms like playful children, and tried to banish the dark thoughts that attempted to claim them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	3. What Lurks in the Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This section was hard to write – I don't particularly like it. It took me a while to get into the swing of things with Return of the King compared to Fellowship and Two Towers.

Once they reached North Ithilien, Annamir’s spirits seemed to lift enormously. As the two women walked south to the Morgul Vale, Anna couldn’t help but rhapsodise on the beauties of her homeland: the lushness of her foliage, the rugged beauty of her clefts and ridges, the grandeur of her silver-capped peaks. Every natural feature in their vicinity was praised as the epitome of nobility and splendour. Nelwen, on the other hand, thought the whole place thoroughly grim, with leafless trees clawing at grey, wintery skies, the Ered Lithui mountain range looming ominously overhead.

Being back in her homeland after so long made Annamir irrepressibly nostalgic and she regaled Nelwen with stories about her childhood as they walked. As a child, Ananmir’s father had regularly taken her and her brothers hunting in the North Ithilien countryside. Her father had always been a skilled archer and he could fell deer from an astonishing distance. Anna would skin whatever they killed with her little dagger and the family would then feast around the campfire while her father told them stories. Her father had not been a particularly gifted orator (Anna’s knack for flamboyant storytelling had come from her mother) but no one knew more about the history of Gondor, and he would tell dark and chilling stories that Anna found perversely delightful.

When they passed in the vicinity of the river island of Cair Andros, Annamir told Nelwen about her first post as a Ranger of Ithilien at the garrison stationed there. The island carried significant strategic importance for Gondor; other than Osgiliath, it was the only crossing-point for an army trying to travel from Mordor into Gondor. After proving herself as a worthy fighter defending Cair Andros from assorted orc ambushes, she was promoted quickly to lieutenant and moved to the Osgiliath garrison.

Nelwen had been to North Ithilien many hundreds of years ago and, having patiently listened to Anna waxing lyrical about her upbringing for some time, she kept Anna’s rapt attention with tales of the land as it once was: the grey thickets that shone like silver when the moon was full; the constant twittering of songbirds along the Anduin river; the beautiful citadels, now long abandoned, built by noble families in the Emyn Arnen.

Ithilien had once been a lush and vibrant fiefdom, and Nelwen had been very fond of it, thinking it almost comparable to some elven havens (the less nice ones obviously). Seeing it in its current decrepitude, ground parched and bleak, sound-less air uncomfortably still, Nelwen felt unexpectedly, _unnervingly_ , heart-broken. Elves did not mourn for the past. Gifted with immortality, they understood and accepted the transient nature of things, never indulging in something as futile (and potentially emotionally damaging) as nostalgia. Nelwen was a bit embarrassed to acknowledge how sad she felt, wondered whether she could blame it on Annamir. Their friendship had given Nelwen a new perspective on Ithilien and she no longer looked at it dispassionately as somewhere she’d once travelled, but the beloved homeland of a most valued friend.

The two women passed the time in companionable conversation, exchanging stories of their childhoods, arguing over the relative merits of the different kingdoms of Middle Earth, and discussing contentious historical questions. But in the quiet lulls of their conversation, they both felt a shiver of unease, a gentle hint of foreboding that neither could really shake.

Still over a week from the entrance to the Morgul Pass, they encountered a small wooded area. With thick underbrush to hide them from passing eyes and a small stream for bathing and drinking, Annamir decided it was the ideal spot to rest. Nelwen, always keen for any opportunity to wash, happily disappeared to the stream, leaving Annamir to start a fire and prepare an evening meal. Annamir groused to herself as she watched Nelwen melt among the trees, thinking it unwise for her to wander alone but knowing that there was no use in objecting. Nelwen’s vanity would not be suppressed, not even when travelling through rugged terrain and with no possibility of being observed by anyone.

As Nelwen walked alone through the small woodland back to the camp, the tingling whisper of unease crescendoed into a persistent clamour. At first she assumed she was merely cold, crisp air biting at bared flesh, simple tunic and breeches clinging to damp skin. But soon she found herself with the distinct impression that she was being watched. Anxiety prickled at the base of her skull, fingers of doubt threading through the curls at the nape of her neck, and she began to accede that she had perhaps been immensely foolish in venturing forth alone. She tried to hurry her pace, the smell of rabbit stew meandering between thick, grey trunks spurning her on.

Suddenly a spindly hand curled around her neck from behind, crushing her windpipe before she had the chance to scream. She clawed at her neck, desperately trying to free herself, when she found herself pulled down and pressed into the dirt. A skeletal grey form, eyes wide and wild, small mouth spitting and snarling around fanged teeth, pinned her to the ground, hands firmly ensconced around her neck. She thrashed her body in an attempt to free herself, her wild shaking making the Ring jingle from the end of the chain around her neck.

The creature’s eyes widened at the sight of the golden band and he threw himself at her, clawing at her neck and the Ring that hung there. He pawed at her chest, fingers clumsy in his excitement and desperation, and tried to push the Ring upon the end of his finger. Panicked, Nel held onto his hands, entwining his fingers with her own just to stop him from reaching the Ring.

Suddenly the gangling beast was ripped from her chest and Nelwen saw, to her great relief, that Annamir had grabbed him by his legs to swing him off of her. But the creature was not to be so easily discarded and he wrapped himself around Annamir, holding onto her torso and squeezing so hard she felt her bones creak. Immobile under his vice-like grip, Annamir could do nothing but loose a guttural scream when he sunk his teeth into her neck. She threw herself to the ground, hoping that the force would hurt him enough that he’d let go. But her hopes were ill-founded and he only tightened his grip until Anna began to feel a little lightheaded. Suddenly Nel appeared at Anna’s side, grabbed the creature by the scruff of his neck and pressed the tip of her dagger against his throat.

“And what have we here, _Gollum_?” she asked.

He screamed, wailing and shrill, like a petulant child caught in the act of misbehaving. He loosened his grip just enough for Anna to pry herself free and she sprung from the ground to escape his grasp, desperately dragging air into her thirsty lungs.

“What should we do?” asked Nel, still pinning him to the ground with her dagger despite his piercing yowling in her ear.

“Tie him up and leave him?” was Anna’s response, voice edged with anger. 

Gollum’s mad screeches turned into pitiable sobs then, begging for forgiveness, begging not to be tied up and left to the mercies of whatever deadly creatures lurked so near to Mordor. He stopped thrashing against Nel’s grip and instead curled in upon himself, hugging his impossibly slender frame and rocking back and forth in time with his undulating cries. Nelwen stood, sheathed her dagger and watched as he wept. Looking at him, she felt a strange meddling of emotions: anger at the brutal assault that could have led to her death; sadness, of course, for the wretched creature weeping into the dirt; but also fear, fear that she was looking at her own miserable future should she fail in her quest to destroy the Ring. Nelwen had the unshakeable feeling that she was witnessing her own inevitable undoing.

“In Lothlorien, Haldir said he would kill him. That it would be a mercy to end his wretched life,” said Nelwen, voice low and unsteady “But now that I see him, I _pity_ him.”

Gollum fell quiet, looked up at Nelwen from between his crooked fingers.

“We be nice to you if you be nice to us!” Gollum said brightly, lowering his hands from his face and lurching forward so that he sat low on his haunches, bobbing slightly as he breathed. “Just don’t tie us up! We swear to you that we won’t harm you.”

“And why should I trust you? You just tried to strangle me.” Nel said.

His body swung from side to side as if swaying to some soundless tune. “I swear to serve the master of the precious. I swears it! Just please, _please_ , don’t leaves us here to die.”

Nelwen regarded him carefully, looked into his eyes to see whether she could discern deception there. His eyes, deep-set and impossibly wide, gave his face an eerie, wraith-life quality. Under his gaze, Nelwen felt oddly exposed and she reflexively hugged her arms across her chest. But he seemed in earnest, his fear genuine.

“I will take you on your word,” Nel said, stepping forward and offering the creature her hand to help him from the floor. From over her shoulder, Annamir bristled uneasily, her hand coming instinctively to hover over the hilt of her sword at her waist. But she made no objection and no attempt to interfere; just watched, alert and ready to strike if needed.

Nel crouched down so that she and Gollum were eye-to-eye. “You know the way to Mordor,” she said, a statement rather than a question, “you’ve been there before.”

“Yes.”

“You will lead us there – to the Morgul Vale and beyond.”

He nodded slowly at first, then briskly. “Yes! Come on! Come on!” he cried with peculiar excitement, jumping up and down, pounding on the ground eagerly with his disproportionately large feet.

They packed up their camp swiftly, deciding to forgo rest for the night. Instead they rushed after their newly acquired guide as he led them through the hills and forests of Ithilien, eager to reach Mordor as soon as possible, ideally before the deranged creature changed his mind and tried to throttle them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	4. To be Useful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn becomes a POV character!
> 
> My original intention was for the whole story to just follow Nelwen and Annamir’s points of view. But Nelwen and Annmir are both in Ithilien (and later Mordor) and so I needed to add another POV character so the reader wouldn’t miss out on all the Minas Tirith shenanigans.
> 
> I found this section very daunting – I wanted to do the lovely Eowyn justice.

Five days after Gandalf’s departure from Edoras, Eowyn was astounded at how _normal_ everything seemed. Children laughed as they tore through the streets, mothers groused at the cost of bread, old men loitered on street corners to discuss their assorted ailments. And Eowyn returned to drifting around the Meduseld, making inane chatter with nobles and doing the occasional cross-stich. The memory of Helm’s Deep, of fighting honourably to defend the Hornburg, seemed like an age ago. 

Eowyn tread carefully across the grass from the Meduseld to a lush knoll next to the King’s stables, two very full cups of piping tea in hand. Nearing the knoll, she saw Aragorn sitting pensively where she’d left him a moment before, surrounded with assorted items of his equipment. Sensing her arrival, he raised his head, nodded his thanks and took the cup of tea that she offered him. She sat down next to him, crossing her legs beneath her body and arranging her chestnut-coloured skirts around her before blowing gently across the top of her mug. Next to her, Aragorn too blew at the surface of his tea, watching transfixed as the spindles of steam rose and curled. The pair sat like that for a while, the sound of gentle sipping the only thing to punctuate the silence.

The knoll next to the stables had always been a favourite spot for Eowyn. The air smelt like home here, of straw and leather polish. And the view north, across the Snowbourn River to West Emnet, stretched out enticingly before her. She’d taken it as an excellent sign of character that Aragorn had become similarly fond of the spot during his short stay.

Her drink finished, she put down her mug and picked up the sewing she’d left before she’d ventured inside in search of refreshment. She frowned when she noticed that Aragorn’s mug seemed almost full. Staring far into the distance, he seemed too distracted with his own thoughts to concern himself with something as mundane as swiftly cooling tea.

“So when do you intend on leaving?” she asked, picking up on the conversation they’d been having before she’d gone to fetch the tea.

“As soon as possible,” was his answer. “I have tarried too long already.”

“Well I’m glad you _did_ tarry. There has been much to do since our return from Helm’s Deep. I know the King has found your assistance invaluable.”

Aragorn gave a thoughtful hum.

“And you’re sure you cannot stay,” she continued, gently prodding his resolve to leave.

“If the riders of Rohan do not ride for Gondor then I must ride on alone. Battle is coming to Minas Tirith and I must lend my assistance if victory is to be achieved. I will travel south of the White Mountains, gather what forces I can along the coast.”

He looked up at her for the first time since she’d handed him his tea, as if hoping for some confirmation from her that he was doing the right thing. For a fleeting moment Eowyn considered objecting, pleading with him to stay and help rebuild the still fragile kingdom of Rohan. But she understood that he needed to go and her pride would not permit her to plead with him when she knew there was no hope of changing his mind. So instead she simply nodded.

They continued on then in mundane conversation, all discussion of Sauron and imminent battle seemingly off limits. Eowyn shared anecdotes about her family: her mother’s tuneless singing, her brother’s secret fear of spiders, her father’s insistence that Eowyn learn to wield a sword. In return, Aragorn told her stories of the elven kingdoms, of the waterfalls of Rivendell and the golden Mallorn trees of Lorien. Eowyn had never seen the kingdoms of the elves, never even _seen_ an elf before meeting Nelwen, and her curiosity was insatiable.

Aragorn took occasional, tentative sips of his tea as they spoke, and Eowyn busied her hands repairing his leathers with confident stitches. While Aragorn was of course capable of repairing his _own_ leathers, she’d watched with agony as he’d repaired his belt to a questionable standard and couldn’t bear watching him make a similar botch of his leather cuirass.

Eyes crinkled with laughter following one of Aragorn’s more sensational stories, Eowyn looked up from her work to briefly drink in the beautiful view. In the corner of her eye, she spotted a small, winking light. At first she thought she was imagining it, that it was just the sun playing atop the snow-peaked mountains. But as she continued to look it became more clear that, yes, there was definitely a burning light atop a nearby mount.

“The beacon!” she said to Aragorn with urgent intensity. 

Aragorn’s head jerked up and there was a momentary pause as the enormity of the situation settled upon the two observers. Suddenly, Aragorn was on his feet, his mug carelessly tossed to the ground in his haste, and he tore across the grass to the Meduseld. Eowyn hurried behind, great fistfuls of skirt in each hand so she wouldn’t trip on her hem.

Bursting through the wooden doors, Aragorn announced to the great hall, “the beacons of Minas Tirith! The beacons are lit! Gondor calls for aid!”

All activity in the hall stopped, all attention drawn first to Aragorn and then to Theoden to see how he would react. Silence fell thick around the assembled nobles of the court and the King’s advisors, interrupted only by the wheezing breaths of Aragorn and Eowyn following their mad dash up the stairs to the Meduseld. At last Theoden smiled, nodded his head once. “And Rohan will answer,” he said, voice laced with determination and pride.

His inaction had almost led to the destruction of Rohan at the hands of Saruman; he would not be prisoner to inaction again. “Muster the Rohirrim,” he ordered his lieutenants, turning from the hall to make preparations for the upcoming journey to Minas Tirith. Eowyn felt a rush of excitement, pleased that the men of Rohan would answer Gondor’s call for help; there was honour to be had in helping those in need.

Bells rang out across Edoras and the streets were chaotic with the coming and going of horses and men alike. The order had been given and the Rohirrim were to ride out to Gondor, lend their support to the garrisons of Minas Tirith.

Eowyn led her horse from the stables, paused to check that all the straps were properly buckled before attempting to mount.

“You ride with us?” asked Aragorn, leading his own horse from the stable behind her.

“Just to the encampment,” she replied. “It’s tradition for the women of the court to farewell the men.”

Aragorn eyed her suspiciously. He’d seen her at Helm’s Deep, seen the determination with which she’d fought. He couldn’t imagine she’d be content with merely saying farewell to the men, watching them ride off to battle while she remained behind. On a hunch, he leant forward and lifted the rug draped across her saddle. When he saw her spatha hidden underneath, the engraved hilt flashing in the sun, he shot her a meaningful look. Embarrassed at having been caught, Eowyn’s cheeks flushed as she hurriedly pulled the rug back into place.

She was grateful when he made no comment, grateful that he did not reveal her deception. She had got a taste for battle at Helm’s Deep: the pulse of blood surging through wearied limbs, the rhythmic clattering of steel on steel, the sense of satisfaction that came from seeing death at your side and stabbing it before it stabbed you. She could not, now, ignore the call to battle when Minas Tirith was in need and she had skill to help. Riding to the encampment of Dunharrow, Aragorn at her side and the riders of Rohan in her wake, Eowyn felt that unique joy that comes from feeling oneself useful. Nothing would make her relinquish that feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	5. Smeagol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nelwen and Smeagol do some bonding...

It had been some time since Annamir had last seen this part of Ithilien; she had been long stationed at Osgiliath when she had received Gandalf’s summons to Rivendell. She couldn’t remember whether the sky had always been so dark, whether the land so stark or the air so stagnant. To the east, lightning branched incessantly across the skies over Mordor, a constant blinking of light that punctuated the murky greyness with brilliant moments of stark white. It made Anna’s eyes hurt.

Nelwen and Annamir walked silently behind Gollum as he led them towards Mordor. Anna had been reluctant to accept his assistance at first. After all, she knew Ithilien better than even most men of Gondor, having travelled the countryside extensively. But she had never stepped foot in Mordor, knew nothing of the Morgul Vale, and was not so proud as to deny help from someone more knowledgeable than her. Accepting his aide, though, did not mean that Anna was prepared to trust him. He’d already tried to kill them once to retake the Ring and Annamir thought it only a matter of time before he tried to kill them again. She eyed his back warily, mouth drawn into a thin line.

Nelwen, much to Annamir’s bewilderment, seemed almost fond of him. She spoke to him softly, regarded him with easy smiles and gentle eyes. At all times, Nel tended to look slightly disdainful. It was therefore odd to see her look at the pitiable creature with such open acceptance.

After many hours of non-stop walking, Gollum threw himself to the ground with a wail. “We are famished!” he cried, stamping his feet and fists against the dirt like a petulant child. 

Irritated at his sudden outburst, Annamir let out a frustrated sigh, narrowed her eyes at him in warning. “Fine – let’s stop to eat then,” she said, voice sharp.

Annamir was not fond of children, avoided them at all costs, and therefore had no idea how to deal with tantrums. She assumed that acquiescence was the easiest way to stop the racket. 

“Yes,” Gollum agreed enthusiastically. “Famished we are, precious!” 

The two women settled themselves on a plateau of large rocks, rummaged in their packs for their water canteens and food supplies. Annamir tossed Gollum a chuck of elven waybread, more to shut him up than ingratiate herself. He scoffed it eagerly before choking, spitting the half-chewed bread to the floor and stamping his feet to express his disapproval. “I can’t eats nasty elf food! We will staaaaarve!” he screamed.

Annamir rolled her eyes at his outburst, deciding that it was best not to engage with his histrionics. Nelwen, however, bow in hand, disappeared into a nearby thicket, indicating with a wave of her hand that she did not need to be accompanied. When she returned a few moments later, she held a small bird in her hand. Without a word, she handed it to Gollum and he bit into it with relish, crunching on flesh, feathers and bone alike. Annamir scrunched her face in revulsion.

It took a lot to repulse Anna; she’d once amputated a man’s foot after gangrene had set in during a long siege of Cair Andros. Not once had she flinched: not at the smell of the rotten flesh, not at the sound of metal grating against bone, not at the feel of thick, hot blood seeping between her fingers and the knife. And yet here she was, watching a cretinous little beast consume an entire bird and trying not to gag.

“Master cares. Master understands,” said Gollum in his odd sing-song voice, looking at Nel with sad, round eyes. Annamir could have almost confused his expression for affection had his eyes not suddenly darkened with hunger as they flicked toward the chain around her neck

“You’ll spoil him,” said Anna, intending her words as a warning rather than a reprimand.

Annamir wasn’t sure whether Nelwen heard her words or not; she gave no indication of having heard, made no attempt to respond, merely sat and stared at the elven waybread in her hands. She hadn’t eaten much since they’d left Rohan, was looking more and more gaunt by the day. Anna was just about to cajole Nel into eating when Gollum bounded up to her side and said, “eat Master! Master needs to keep up her strength!" 

At the soft rasp of his voice against her ear, Nelwen looked up, stared at him intently as if for the first time. “Who _are_ you?” she asked.

Gollum recoiled, face pinching as if assaulted with a bad smell. “Musn’t ask what is not your business!” he spat.

She put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from running away from her, looked at him squarely in the eyes. “Gandalf told me you were once of the river folk, a hobbit. He said your life is a sad tale. What happened to you, _Smeagol_?”

“What did you call me?” Gollum asked, his face knotted in disgust but his voice betraying something that sounded remarkably like gratitude.

“That was your name once, wasn’t it – a long time ago.”

“My name?” He looked pleased, as if reunited with a long-lost friend. 

“You and I are the same, Smeagol,” she said, raising her hand from his shoulder to brush against his temple. “When I destroy the Ring, I do it for you as much as I do it for me. Do you understand?”

He stared at her blankly, head swaying side to side as if rolling her words back and forth in his head.

“We will be free, Smeagol, _free_.”

Gollum nodded, although Annamir questioned whether he truly did understand what Nelwen was saying. Gollum had carried the Ring for so long that he was irreversibly bound to it, would forever crave its comforting whispers. The creature might yearn for freedom from the Ring’s thrall but Annamir doubted whether such a thing was possible for someone so utterly disfigured by its malice. She hoped the same fate did not await her friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	6. The Haradrim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our trio encounters the Haradrim in Ithilien.

As the trio continued south, Annamir was relieved to find things become a little more picturesque. Rather than bleak hillsides punctuated with the occasional clump of naked, twisting trees, they walked through a forest of tall, green conifers. And high above them, the occasional peak of optimistic blue sky could be spied between the dark, winter clouds.

Beside her, Nelwen hummed softly as she walked. It wasn’t quite the enthusiastic, full-throated singing in which Nelwen usually indulged but Annamir thought it an encouraging sign nonetheless. Her face was drawn and her steps heavy but the gently swinging tune was proof that her spirits were not completely broken. Annamir recognised the melody as an old Gondorian sea shanty from the Belfalas coast and tried to sing along, making up her own lyrics when her memory failed her. Nelwen smirked at Annamir’s more colourful inventions, her hums faltering among her giggles. 

Suddenly, Nelwen stopped, body still and head cocked to the side. From the twitching of her ears and her distant stare, she had heard something interesting. Nelwen darted into the trees, beckoned them to follow with a wave, and led them to the edge of a shallow gulley. Just below them marched a long column of soldiers, clad in black, faces covered, winding slowly through the rocks and trees like spilt tar.

“Who are they?” asked Nelwen, voice curious but also a little annoyed, as if angered by her own ignorance.

“Wicked men; Servants of Sauron,” replied Gollum. “They are called to Mordor. The Dark One is calling all armies to him.”

“They are the Haradrim,” said Anna. “A proud and warlike people from the south. I have fought them on many occasions. When I left Osgiliath for Rivendell, my company of Rangers was just departing to stop Haradrim from coming up the Harad Road to Mordor.” Nelwen nodded as Annamir spoke, listening intently.

“It won’t be long now. Soon he will be ready,” sneered Gollum. “To make his war, the last war.”

His words hung in the air between them and Annamir felt the elf’s small shiver beside her. “Let’s keep moving,” said Nel.

The trio was about to depart from their perch at the edge of the gulley when the sound of rumbling and splintering wood drew their attention back to the marching lines of Haradrim. Far back along the valley floor, hulking mamukils emerged from among the trees, great wooden towers strapped precariously upon their backs. The ground shook with each lumbering step and the trees groaned and cracked as the mamukils forced their way through the woodland. The creatures were adorned with slashes of pain in red and black, making them appear more like demons than animals. 

Nel crouched and stared with eyes pulled wide with awe. Clearly fascinated by the sight, a content smile played on her lips. But Annamir was no longer awed by the sight of mamukils, no longer fascinated by their size or ferocious bearing. For she knew too well the sight of a mamukil in full charge, the sound of crunching armour and snapping bones. Unwilling to stay and let haunting memories consume her, Annamir tapped on Nelwen’s shoulder, gave a sharp nod to indicate that they should continue.

Suddenly Annamir heard a familiar hooting, a distinct pattern of bird calling, and then the Haradrim came under fire. Arrows fell thick and fast upon the columns of warriors below and the mamukil reared in distress as they came under fire. The men scattered, desperate to escape both the onslaught of arrows and the deadly trample of feet. The trio, not wanting to become caught in the crossfire, turned from the edge of the gulley and rushed back into the forest.

The underbrush was thick in this part of the forest and as they pushed their way through the branches and scrub, they found themselves running headlong into a group of cloaked men. Annamir immediately recognised the muted green of their cloaks, their distinctive estocs upon their waists, but didn’t have the chance to call out to Nelwen before the she had made to unsheathe her dagger. Threatened by Nel’s move to her weapon, the hooded stranger lurched forwards and grabbed her. He held her aloft by her neck, his fists buried in the collar of her burgundy coat, and Nelwen scrambled against his grip with her tiny hands.

“Oi, Steve!” shouted Annamir, suddenly struck by recognition. “That’s no way to treat a lady! Keep your dirty mits to yourself!”

The hooded man was clearly startled by Annamir’s hollering and he abruptly dropped Nelwen, sending her crumpling to the dirt with an indignant yelp.

“Annamir!” came an enthusiastic bellow from behind the ranger, and Anna’s friend and former captain, Faramir, came forward through the trees, pulling Anna into a welcoming hug. From over Faramir’s shoulder, Anna could see the rest of her ranger company approaching from among the undergrowth, their faces erupting into joyful grins when they spied her. Annamir felt a sudden, overwhelming wave of happiness to be among her fellow rangers again, to be _home_. She returned Faramir’s hug with gusto, squeezing him until he gave a wheezing chuckle. Finally releasing Faramir from her powerful grip, she turned and greeted her former companions in turn, shaking their hands and slapping them on their backs with more force than was really necessary.

Nelwen picked herself from the floor, dusted herself down and shot Steve a glare full of daggers. Wisely, he stepped back.

“What brings you here, friend?” asked Faramir. “I thought you’d travelled beyond the Misty Mountains with an important task from Gandalf. And yet here you are back in Ithilien,” he gave Nelwen a curious once over, “and with unusual company.”

“We are bound to an errand of secrecy,” Annamir said with an apologetic shake of her head. “I wish I could tell you more, truly I do. If you are heading in the direction of the Morgul Vale, we would appreciate the company.”

Annamir hated to see Faramir’s eyes cloud with suspicion. But then it must have come as a shock to him to find her back in Ithilien after several months’ absence with a surly elf in tow and no explanation for what she was up to.

“We head south for Osgiliath,” said Faramir, cautious but still friendly. “You are welcome to join us.”

“Wait a minute!” interjected Steve, earning him another reproachful glare from Nel. “What is this mysterious errand? What could possibly be so important that you are skulking around the forest with some elf?”

Annamir’s brows leapt up, surprised by such angry questioning from a former comrade. When did Steve get so _feisty_? 

“Perhaps they’re spies!” accused a ranger that Annamir did not recognise. Nelwen glared at him too. 

“This is Annamir, daughter of Annamund, and courageous Ranger of Ithilien! She has fought with us in countless battles. She is no spy!” insisted Faramir.

“And what about that one?” asked another ranger, pointing an accusatory finger at Nelwen. Annamir didn’t recognise this man either and, sensing the hostility in the air, she began to feel a trickle of doubt; perhaps she and Nelwen would be better off continuing alone after all.

From Nelwen’s stormy expression it was clear that she did not appreciate the censorious scrutiny. She drew herself to her full height, held herself with all the authority that she could muster, and said, “I am Nelwen Nelladel of Rivendell and I am no spy. For many months I have travelled with Gandalf and two of the race of men: Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Annamir, daughter of Annmund. We have come here from Rohan, where we fought alongside the Rohirrim to stave off the forces of Saruman at Helm’s Deep. I assure you, I am a friend of men, and of Gondor.”

Silence fell upon the group, the rangers shifting uncomfortably but seemingly satisfied with her answer. If they still had reservations about her identity, none voiced them. 

“And what of your skulking friend?” asked Steve. “That gangling creature?” Annamir looked around, noticed for the first time that Gollum was no longer with them.

“There is no other,” said Nelwen firmly, her tone making it clear that she was not to be questioned further. The rangers looked at her nervously and Annamir marvelled at her diminutive friend’s ability to terrify people twice her size.

“Come, friends!” Faramir called to his company, cutting through the tension with his jovial tone. “One of our own has returned to us. Let us see what assistance we can give her and trust that, when the time is right, she will tell us what she must now conceal.”

Annamir surveyed her former company. The few rangers that were strangers to her remained sceptical, eyeing both Annamir and Nelwen with open hostility. But her friends welcomed her to the fold, welcomed Nelwen as her trusted friend. While a nagging doubt remained that perhaps it would be better to continue alone, Annamir was too pleased to be among her family once more to pay it much heed. With the Rangers of Ithilien as their allies, their journey to Mordor would surely be an easier one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd intended Steve to be a placeholder name and then I'd come up with something more Tolkien-esque later - but then I got rather attached to the name and decided to keep it.
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	7. The Camp at Dunharrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn gets sassy!
> 
> This section is loooong! I swear they’re getting longer and longer.

At the edge of the cliff top overlooking Harrowdale valley, Eowyn stood and looked out over the soldiers camped below. She peered intently at the white stripes of tents, the neat lines of upturned spears, and tried to pick out the banners of the different lordships of Rohan. From her vantage point she spied the dull grey banners of the Westfold, the startling blue of the Snowbourn banners, and tried to figure out from sight how many men had come from each corner of Rohan. Eowyn thought it an impressive sight, endless rows stretching across the grass and into the tree-line of the nearby forest, but she’d overheard her uncle say that only 6,000 men had come.

It wasn’t enough, not enough to break the back of the forces of Mordor.

Turning from the edge of the cliff, Eowyn made her way through the camp. The day was late, the sun already slipping behind the White Mountains, and the flat upland of Firienfeld had long been cloaked in shadow. Eowyn hugged her arms around herself as she navigated her way through the tents, cursing herself for having left her cloak upon her cot. The narrow channels between the mountains seemed to amplify the wind; it whipped the encampment with an icy intensity and a haunting moan. 

A short distance ahead, she spotted her brother and Gamling huddled around a roaring campfire. She quickened her pace, eager to reach the fireside and its halo of warmth. From the corner of her eye she noticed a tall hooded figure entering her uncle’s tent. He was unusually tall, held himself with uncommon poise, and his cloak had a rich sheen, far too nice a fabric for a place such as this. But the sight of strangers around the camp was hardly unusual; new people were arriving all the time. In the end, her immediate need for warmth overcame her curiosity regarding the cloaked stranger and she sat down next to her brother by the fire. 

A squat, black pot hung over the fire and the smell emanating from within, while not exactly the most appetising thing Eowyn had ever encountered, made her stomach grumble. They had ridden fast and hard to Dunharrow and there had been little time to stop and eat. She picked up a nearby earthenware bowl and started eagerly ladling soup inside, smiling as the heat emanating from the bowl warmed her hands.

“Easy there, little sister,” Eomer reprimanded gently. “Save the food for the soldiers. They will need strength to fight.”

“And don’t I need strength also? If I am to fight-”

“You’re not going to fight!” interrupted Eomer, more amusement than heat in his voice. “You will stay here, where it’s safe,” he continued, this time a little softer. “I know you think there is honour in battle but there is also honour in offering guidance and encouragement to the people left behind. Let the _men_ go to battle.”

Eowyn knew Eomer meant well, knew that he cared for her safety. She could see that while his voice was stern, his eyes were edged with fear, the fear of losing her, of failing her. But still, his reprimand angered her; Eowyn was fed-up of people underestimating her.

“Why should I be left behind?!” she asked, her voice like iron. “I have as much cause to go to war as you. Why can I not fight for those I love?”

“You know little of war,” he muttered, the fondness in his eyes replaced with condescension. “When the fear takes you, and the blood, and the screams, and the horror of battle take hold? Do you think you will stand to fight?"

He leant forwards, sneered at her with that peculiar smugness common to all older brothers as they taunt their sisters. “You will flee – and you would be right to do so,” he said, then added after a brief moment of consideration, “war is the province of men.”

Eowyn had of course been angry with her brother before. They’d fought frequently as children, bandying petty insults or playing cruel pranks. Eomer had once smeared daub into her hair when she’d dosed off reading on the grass next to the stables. The wet mix of soil, straw and animal dung had clung persistently to each strand and their mother had had to cut it all off, leaving her with uneven blonde locks barely long enough to cover her ears. The other children in Edoras had laughed at her; she had punched them in the face (Eomer helped).

And yet the flash of anger that consumed her now came as a surprise. “You patronising ass!” she yelled, standing from her place and letting rage wash over her. “I was there at Helm’s Deep when _you_ were not. I fought alongside our countrymen. I stood on the causeway and held back the forces!”

From beside Eomer, Gamling nodded emphatically, baring witness to the ferocity with which Eowyn had fought at Helm’s Deep. Stunned into silence, Eomer merely stared at his sister, mouth gaping, as she loomed over him. Not wishing to listen to his patronising reprimands anymore, Eowyn spun and marched from the campfire towards her tent.

So consumed was she by her rage as she stomped across the camp that she almost didn’t see Aragorn hidden at the back of the camp, hastily and silently packing. At first she was confused, not understanding why he was skulking at the back of the camp. But then comprehension slowly dawned; he intended on leaving as soon as possible, slipping away unnoticed while under the shroud of nightfall. Eowyn had thought it impossible for her to feel more irate than she already did but watching Aragorn sneakily preparing to leave somehow managed to further intensify her anger.

“What are you doing?!” she cried, quiet so as to not draw attention to them but with significant force behind each word. “The war lies to the east – you cannot leave on the eve of battle. You cannot abandon us!” 

“Eowyn…” he began with a sigh, not raising his head to look at her but continuing to buckle his pack to his horse.

“We need you here!”

He turned to look at her, his eyes pleading with her to just leave him alone. He clearly thought her a delay he could ill-afford. “Why have you come?” he asked wearily.

“Why do you think?! To keep you where you can do good.”

Aragorn gave her a peculiar look, tired but also strangely pitying. The sight of it made Eowyn’s stomach drop. “I know why you have come,” Aragorn said with painful gentleness. “I cannot give you what you seek.”

Eowyn’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment at his words. She’d hoped that he hadn’t noticed her ill-fated pining, her futile efforts to win his esteem. But embarrassment could not properly take hold while anger still reigned over her. “I’m not here for _you_. I’m here for _them_!” she continued, pointing to the lines of tents occupied by fretting soldiers. “I’m here because if I fail to stop you from leaving, they will assume they march to hopeless battle.” Her voice fell low and she looked at him stonily, “I am capable of putting aside my feelings for the sake of my people. What will you do for the sake of _yours_?!”

Aragorn sighed again and Eowyn could tell from the tightness in his face that he wanted her gone, that he did not want to divulge his plans. And yet Eowyn stood her ground, stared him down with all the intensity that she could muster. He held her gaze unflinching, stared back at her with his customary stoic determination. But when he scrubbed his hand across his face, she knew that she had won. “Sauron’s armies march on Minas Tirith,” he said. “But I have just received word that he has sent, in secret, another force; a fleet of ships sail from Umbar to attack Minas Tirith from the river. We need more men!”

Eowyn nodded as he spoke, felt her anger subsiding as he brought her into his confidence. She knew little of Umbar or the ferocity of their corsairs but she could tell from his dark tone that they must be a formidable opponent.

“I head to the Dimholt,” he continued. “There is an army there, of cursed men. I must call upon them to fight, pray that they will answer to me.”

“They will answer to the King of Gondor,” she insisted.

He smiled thinly, strangely buoyed by her optimism. “That is why I must leave.”

“I understand,” she said, nodding pensively before continuing with a smirk, “and I’m coming with you.”

“No, Eowyn!” he urged, “I must do this alone. It is too dangerous for you.”

“It is too dangerous for you to go _alone_!”

“Eowyn, if you’re doing this as some attempt to win my favour-”

“Don’t you dare insult me by finishing that thought!” she barked, her anger returning with a sharp stab. “Yes, I admit that I have harboured feelings for you,” she continued a little softer, proud of how her voice remained steady even as her emotions roiled. “But I’m not foolish enough to hold onto feelings when there is no chance of reciprocation. I do not offer to help you in an effort to win your favour; I do this for me. I do this because it’s the right thing to do.”

He opened his mouth as if to object but no words came out. Instead he shook his head with a weary chuckle. He had learnt his lessons from travelling for several months with two stubborn women; it was usually better not to argue.

“We leave at once,” he said, “leave everything that you can spare.”

She smiled at her small victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	8. Window on the West

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nelwen and Faramir do some bonding

The dying light of the late afternoon sun danced on the surface of the waterfall, creating rainbows of colour that skated and blurred across the curtain of water. Nelwen felt oddly entranced by the twisting colours, remembered dimly the swirling of pastel skirts at elegant elven balls. She sat cross-legged on the stone floor of the hidden Gondorian outpost and idly stroked at her tunic where the Ring hung below, gazing out through the crystalline water to the landscape of Ithilien beyond.

For several days Nelwen and Annamir had walked with the southern Rangers to the hidden refuge of Henneth Annun. Things had been tense at first between the two women and the company of rangers; a few among their number clearly did not trust the duo, even though Annamir was one of their own. Humans were peculiarly distrustful creatures, Nel mused, even toward their own kind. But spirits had lifted as Annamir regaled her former comrades with tales of her most recent exploits: tales of Lothlorien and an elvish queen so beautiful, she shone like starlight; tales of battling Uruk-hai even while punctured with arrows; tales of a mighty fortress and a siege against a force ten thousand strong. Old friends and strangers alike were enthralled with Anna’s stories.

Now they rested, hoping to head out again the following morning for their journey ever southward. Annamir sat with her friends around the fire in the central cavern of the sprawling system of tunnels, laughing and eating while her friends updated her on her beloved homeland. But Nelwen had needed respite from rough human voices and so had slipped away to a small cavern tucked behind the waterfall. A fine mist pervaded the cave, feeling refreshingly cool on her skin, and she could just make out the sound of birds twittering from the trees beyond the waterfall. It was peaceful and she felt a close approximation to contentment.

Her ears pricked at the sound of someone approaching and she glanced over her shoulder to see the ranger captain, Faramir, entering the cavern. He walked softer than most humans and Nelwen was startled that he’d got so close before she’d realised he was there. He apologised for disturbing her but made no attempt to speak further, simply leant against the wall of the cave while watching night descend upon Ithilien through the tumbling water. Nelwen found, unusually, that she didn’t begrudge the intrusion. 

The companionable silence was broken when Nelwen sneezed, so high and clear it sounded like a bell ringing.

“What was that?” asked Faramir, an eyebrow arched in amusement.

“I sneezed,” Nelwen replied simply, as if speaking to an idiot. 

“It sounded like you were summoning woodland creatures,” he quipped.

His jest made her smile, though she regarded him oddly, and then she found herself laughing. He laughed with her, looking noticeably relieved that she seemed amused and not offended by his comment.

“I was half expecting songbirds to appear and braid your hair, or spin you a cloak out of spiders’ webs. Like princesses in the old fairytales.”

“I’m afraid not; I am no princess,” she said, shaking her head but retaining her crooked smile.

“You look like one,” he replied, admiring her with such unguarded earnestness that her skin tingled. She quickly looked away, suddenly embarrassed by the realisation that she was blushing.

Feeling peculiarly emboldened, Faramir moved from his perch against the wall and sat close to her, claiming her full attention to regale his with his favourite fairytales from him childhood. He told her stories of dragon hunters and drunks, of wily foxes and riddle-solving princesses. He was a less showy storyteller than Anna, less theatrical, but he spoke articulately and with an almost poetic elegance.

Nelwen had read extensively the histories of men. She’d read their philosophers, she’d read their theologians, she’d read their military strategists. But never had she encountered their folk stories. Elves didn’t really have folk stories: elven fiction was primarily epic poetry, lengthy narrative poems concerning serious subjects and acts of extraordinary heroism or wisdom. She therefore found herself utterly engrossed by Faramir’s whimsical, often bawdy, little stories.

When another ranger hurried into the cavern, Nelwen was surprised by how annoyed she was at the interruption. She scrunched her nose as the ranger whispered something into the captain’s ear before retreating again into the tunnels.

“Come,” said Faramir abruptly, the softness in his face vanishing, the captain’s veneer falling into place.

Something was clearly awry and Nelwen obediently followed him through the labyrinthine tunnels until she emerged into the night air. They stood just above the pool at the base of the waterfall, dense shrubs partially obscuring their view. Peering through the foliage, Nel caught sight of Smeagol as he gingerly circled the pool.

“To enter the forbidden pool bears the penalty of death,” said Faramir, gesturing around them to assorted hidden archers. She could feel his eyes upon her, scrutinising her closely to judge her reaction.

She thought about lying, about insisting that she’d never seen the spindly, sallow creature before. But it had taken a long time to earn the rangers’ trust and no benefit would come from attempting to deceive them. She was also just _tired_ , both mentally and physically, and could not muster the effort required to conceive a convincing falsehood.

“Don’t shoot,” she said. “This creature is bound to me, and I to him. He is my guide.” Faramir looked confused by her words and she looked at him pleadingly, “please, let me go down to him.” His confusion remained evident on his face but he nodded nonetheless, standing aside to let her approach the pool.

“Smeagol!” she called softly as she tip-toed across the rocky ground. He jerked, squinted over his shoulder to peer at her with his sad, grey eyes. He looked confused at her presence, eyes slanting and mouth agape, as if he didn’t quite recognise her.

“Come Smeagol – it is not safe,” she said.

“We must go… now?” he drawled, words slow and cautious.

“There are men here, Smeagol. I don’t want them to hurt you. Please come with me.”

Smeagol crawled from the pool on all fours, eyes locked onto Nel’s as she beckoned him closer. Suddenly a ranger stepped through the underbrush, grabbed the creature by his fragile neck and held him aloft. Smeagol thrashed in his hands, screeching like an injured animal and clawing at the man’s chest with long, crooked fingers. 

Nelwen surged forward, pulled her dragger from its sheath and pressed the tip against the ranger’s throat. “Let him go,” she commanded.

More rangers appeared then, surrounding her with arrows drawn. Faramir pushed through his men, hoping to diffuse the situation before it escalated. 

“This creature is harmless. To hurt him is an act of barbarity,” she insisted.

There was a pregnant pause while Faramir considered her words, considered the strange creature as it spasmed in the grasp of his subordinate. Finally he nodded at the ranger, gestured with his hand for Smeagol to be released. With reluctance, the ranger dropped the squalling grey form to the ground.

Nel immediately sheathed her dagger, bent to comfort Smeagol as he shook and moaned on the floor. “They won’t hurt you anymore,” she said, soft and lilting, as if calming a startled horse. He gripped to her arm, long, tapered fingers digging desperately into her flesh.

Faramir and his rangers watched in bewilderment at the small elf soothing the ugly, twisted beast. “Why do you protect this creature so?” asked Faramir.

Nelwen looked up at Faramir, eyes brimming with a fear that he did not expect his question to elicit, “because we are the same, and I need to know that he can be saved.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	9. Nazgul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally the Nazgul! I can’t believe they’ve only just turned up but since this story starts after Frodo has reached Rivendell, we missed all the chase scenes at the beginning.
> 
> This section took so loooong to write – it was really frustrating.

There was a stone in Nelwen’s boot. 

As if the seemingly endless trekking through the unremarkable forests of Ithilien wasn’t bad enough, now she had to contend with this sharp, brutal, _agonising_ stab. It dug persistently into the pad of her foot, scraping torturously with each step. She wriggled her foot in her boot, rocking her instep from side-to-side in an attempt to dislodge the stone, maybe move it to somewhere less noticeable. She could still feel it. She stamped the ground as she walked, hoping the extra force would cause the stone to shift. She could still feel it. She lifted her left leg and shook it vigourously, hopping precariously along on her right so as to keep pace with the rangers who snickered at her thrashing. The stone would not budge; she could still feel it. 

With a sound that was half wearied sigh, half irritated growl, Nelwen dropped to the floor and started manhandling her boot from her foot. She held her footwear aloft, gave it a firm shake, and watched in dismay as a tiny stone, barely the size of a grain of rice, dropped onto her lap. That was it? How could all that pain be caused by something so tiny?

She tried to pick up the stone so she could scowl at it at close range but it slipped from her fingertips and fell onto the floor, immediately hidden among the dust and leaves. Her quarry lost, she scrunched up her nose and gave her hands a frustrated little shake, as if she could shake away her irritation. 

Lost as she was in her private battle against malevolent gravel, she hadn’t noticed that, while the other rangers had carried on, Faramir still stood beside her. At first she wondered whether he had stopped to keep an eye on her, suspicious as to what she was up to. But he was smiling fondly, clearly amused by her aggravated grumbling and flailing, and he patiently waited as she wrangled with her boot. She was struck by the notion that he waited out of gentlemanly concern, rather than suspicion, and that pleased her more than she was ready to admit.

She held up her hand, a silent command, and he helped her to her feet.

The pair walked along in relative privacy, the other rangers having walked on ahead, and Nelwen realised she finally had the opportunity to find out just how many of Annamir’s stories were, as she’d long suspected, completely fictional. Faramir laughed to hear of the stories that Annamir had told the elf and happily corrected some of the more egregious fabrications. No, Annamir had never dismounted a nazgul and stolen his horse. No, Annamir had never arm-wrestled a cave-troll. Yes, Annamir _did_ get horrifically drunk and sit atop the throne of Gondor in little more than her skivvies. Nelwen was mildly horrified to learn that most of Annamir’s stories were true, though frequently exaggerated, and she once again found herself marvelling at how she’d come to be friends with someone with such questionable decision-making skills.

Suddenly, Nel felt an unexpected tug around her neck. The chain she wore began to feel hot against her skin and the Ring that hung upon it suddenly felt heavier. For many months she’d heard the Ring whispering, felt its fingers pushing their way inside her head, scraping along the inside of her skull. But never had she felt it weigh more; never had she felt a _physical_ burden. Panicked by the unwelcome and inexplicable change, Nelwen tried to catch sight of Annamir ahead. She needed to tell someone what was happening, needed someone to offer her comfort.

“What’s wrong?” asked Faramir, concerned by her sudden silence and growing pallor.

Nelwen didn’t have the opportunity to reply when a shriek, shrill and piercing and raw, punctuated the air. Never had Nelwen heard something so terrible, so gut-wrenchingly sad, and her whole body convulsed as the sound rippled through her. Even with her hands clapped tightly upon her ears, the sound was not lessened, seemingly emanating from somewhere within her and forcing its way outward.

Dimly she was aware of rangers running about her, yelling and diving for cover. Smeagol wailed and perhaps Annamir called her name, but she just stood immobile. Standing locked in place, Nelwen felt intolerably, heart-wrenchingly, incomprehensibly _sad_. So gripped with despair was she at the utter futility of her quest, that she felt the overwhelming urge to just sit down upon the floor and wait for the end to claim her.

From above the tall and trembling trees, Nelwen spotted a colossal black form sweeping towards her. At the back of her mind there was a tiny, tremulous thought that she should perhaps run, seek cover with the humans, but instead she stayed and watched the creature approach with wearied acceptance.

A surging pain in her abdomen and across her back brought her out of her trance and Nelwen noticed belatedly that Annamir had tackled her to the ground. “Nazgul,” whispered Anna urgently, “their eyesight is poor. We must remain hidden.”

But Nelwen didn’t want to remain hidden; Nelwen wanted to be found. Driven by some peculiar compulsion, she started patting urgently at her tunic, trying desperately to reach the Ring underneath. But Anna was still sprawled on top of her in heavy armour, effectively pinning the slight elf to the ground. “I need to put it on,” she mewled desperately, “I need to put the Ring on.”

Anna grabbed Nelwen’s hands, held on with all her might despite Nelwen’s frantic writhing. With a feral snarl, she tried to push Anna away, tried to scramble free of her grasp, but still Anna held firm.

When at last the Nazgul flew into the distance, its shriek muffling to a distant itch, Nelwen’s entire body went slack. Anna still clung to her friend, as if scared of what might happen should she let go, and the two women lay slumped together among the undergrowth. At last, Annamir stood, offering her hand and helping Nelwen upright. Nelwen mumbled an apology and then smoothed Anna’s hair in her characteristically fastidious manner.

“What the fuck was that about?” came an angry voice from behind her and Nelwen turned to see Steve the ranger pointing a shuddering finger at her. She wasn’t certain whether it was fear or anger that gripped him but she immediately knew that she was in trouble.

“What’s wrong?” asked Annamir, subtly shifting to place herself between Nelwen and the growing cadre of twitchy-looking rangers.

“A Nazgul arrives and she suddenly starts freaking out! First standing around like an idiot and then thrashing about the ground like she’s a demon!” 

“She’s never encountered a Nazgul before – surely you remember the fear that gripped you when you first encountered the wraiths.”

“Nah, nah,” started a different ranger, shaking his head emphatically. “What she did wasn’t normal. She’s been acting shifty since she arrived. Keeping secrets about why she’s here. Now she’s talking gibberish at Nazgul. Elves can’t be trusted! What’s she hiding?!”

A ranger made to grab Nelwen but Annamir stood in the way, moved her hand to rest on the hilt of her sword in a quiet warning. But then another ranger lunged forward, this time toward Anna. He wrenched one arm behind her back while yet another ranger stamped with brutal force on her foot. With a startled yell, she fell to her knees, stones cutting her skin even through her trousers.

Nel tried to rush forward to help Anna until a vicious kick to her knee sent her sprawling to the floor. A hand wrapped around her windpipe while the other held her by the shoulder, the fingers digging into her collarbone. She probably should have been thinking of an escape plan, thinking of some astounding form of words to persuade the rangers that she wasn’t a threat; instead she wondered idly whether the chain burnt his hand the way it burnt her neck. 

“Stop this madness,” came Faramir’s commanding voice above the ruckus. He stood with an arrow notched to his bow and trained on the ranger that held Nel by the neck. Nelwen was relieved to see that as many rangers had weapons trained on each as other as had weapons trained on her and Annamir. It was heartening that some of Annamir’s friends were still willing to defend her.

“There are rumours that the elves have found the weapon of the enemy,” said Steve, standing in the heart of the fray with beady eyes locked on Nel.

“Isildur’s Bane?!” came a number of startled cries, rippling through the rangers’ ranks. Nelwen felt immensely uncomfortable, and more than a little bit uneasy, when she realised that all eyes were intensely focused on her. Even those rangers previously friendly to Annamir and herself started to look at her with an unnerving hunger.

“Search her!” shouted Steve and Nelwen blanched with horror when she felt dozens of hands descend upon her, yanking at her cloak and pawing at her coat. She screamed, too startled by the attack to care about whether or not she was drawing unwanted attention this close to Mordor. Anna strained against the grip of the rangers who held her trapped, spitting threats, and Faramir tried to pull his men off of her, shouted at them in a vain effort to restore some semblance of order.

“Don’t hurt the Master! Don’t hurt the Precious!” cried Smeagol, jumping at the edge of the group and wailing with miserable sobs.

With a sudden, surging strength that she didn’t think she possessed – a strength born out of a terrible fear of being parted from her precious burden – Nelwen lashed out, clawing viciously at whomever was closest until she escaped from her assailants’ roving hands. The Ring was roaring now, an echoing vibration that churned from her ears to the bridge of her nose. When she turned to glare at the jumbled rabble of rangers, her eyes felt foreign to her face, dark and hooded. She held her body taut and poised, like a viper preparing to strike, and a strange stillness fell upon the rangers, withering under her stare. 

“No one touch me!” she seethed with a voice that echoed with a dark timbre, a voice not at all like her own.

The sound shocked her and she fought to rein in her feelings, silence the Ring’s goading, and reclaim herself. “You don’t understand,” she continued, this time without the intensity, a tone of pleading in its stead. “It is an evil thing. It will bring you nothing but death. The Ring _must_ be destroyed.”

“The Ring of Power must go to Osgiliath!” replied Steve. “Our need is great. It is _our_ blood that is being spilt, _our_ brothers who are dying.” There were hearty murmurs of assent, vigourous nodding from several of the rangers.

“The Ring of Power will not serve Gondor. It only knows betrayal,” said Faramir, trying to assert control over his men. Faramir had a voracious appetite for history, had read extensively the lore of this people, and knew that nothing good would come from having the Ring of Power in their possession.

“We will take the Ring to Boromir,” suggested one of the rangers. “He will know what is to be done with it.” There was universal agreement among the rangers, even among those who had not sided with Steve and his malcontents.

Faramir stood with sagging shoulders and downcast eyes, frustrated at his inability to control his own men. He considered these men his friends as well as his comrades and felt a flush of shame at the thought that they would not obey his commands. But he knew his men were agitated by the influence of the Ring of Power, beguiled with the false hope that possessing the Ring would grant the men of Gondor spectacular victory against the forces of Sauron. He feared that should fighting break out over the Ring in earnest then blood would be spilt.

“Ok. We will take the Ring to Osgiliath,” he said with a wearied sigh and an apologetic look directed at Nelwen and Annamir. While his counsel alone had failed to persuade his rangers, perhaps he would have more success with his brother on this side.

Under the watchful stares of the rangers, the two women were led toward Osgiliath. Now drained of whatever strange strength had taken hold of her, Nelwen stumbled, pale and exhausted. Never had she felt the Ring’s thrall so strongly, never had she felt its effects so readily take hold of her body. It scared her. Noticing her disquiet, Annamir reached out, took the elf’s hand in her own and gave it a gentle squeeze. Nelwen felt slightly better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	10. Dead Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Eowyn head to the Dimholt in search of the Dead Men
> 
> It’s funny that while the last section to an absolute age to write – this one came out in like 15 minutes! Result!

Aragorn and Eowyn left Dunharrow before dawn, their spirits heavy and their mounts unsteady. Above the cragged summits of the White Mountains, the sky was just beginning to pale, although it would be some hours until the sun peaked his crown over the horizon. In silence they rode, Aragorn in the lead, through the narrow, winding gulleys, into the Dimholt, a natural amphitheatre carved into the rocks. They were surrounded on all sides by serrated shards of stone, their peaks jagged as if hewn apart by the hands of mighty giants.

“What kind of army dwells in such a forsaken place?” asked Eowyn, her voice quiet for fear of causing offence to whatever unknown presence made the air feel so close.

“Long ago, the Men of the Mountain swore an oath to the last King of Gondor, to come to his aide, to fight. But when the time came, when Gondor’s need was dire, they fled, vanishing into the darkness of the mountain,” said Aragorn, pausing as his horse brayed at some unseen nuisance and stroking comfortingly behind the creature’s ear. “And so Isildur cursed them, never to rest, until they had fulfilled their pledge.”

Eowyn’s own horse bristled with each step, pulling against the reins as if hoping to turn back. As a lady of Rohan, Eowyn knew of the wisdom of horses, knew that they understood things that humans were too stubborn or pre-occupied to note. She interpreted her horse’s discomfort as a warning, adding to her own unease and testing her resolve to continue. But she couldn’t turn back now. All she’d ever wanted in life was the chance to prove herself useful, to prove that she was capable of more than the lowly expectations that people had of her. This was her chance to test her mettle.

A double row of standing stones marked the ancient roadway that led east towards the Dwimorberg, the haunted mountain, and the Paths of the Dead. They meandered along the twisting path for many hours until the sun was at its peak. Even at the height of midday, no heat seemed to reach them, the warmth of the sun stolen away by the ashen fingers of ragged rock. When they at last reached the foothills of the Dwimorberg, they entered a wood of dark fir-trees and the horses grew so unsettled that they had to abandon them and continue on foot. As Eowyn watched her beloved steed hurry back to the safety of camp, she felt a tiny twinge of jealousy.

Beyond the wood of black trees they at last reached the Dark Door of The Dead, its lintel carved with crude symbols of some forgotten language. Aragorn turned to her before they entered, looked at her meaningfully, as if giving her one final chance to turn back. With a haughtiness to rival any elf’s, Eowyn walked passed Aragorn, head drawn high, and into the mountain.

The ceiling of the cave was low and Aragorn had to stoop to proceed. A fine mist shrouded the floor and the ancient walls were scarred and pitted, as if desperate hands had clawed upon them in a vain attempt to dig to the surface. Eowyn thought that she could see shapes among the swirling mists at her feet – unfurling banners, clashing swords, a grovelling hand – but she pushed the thought aside as merely a cruel trick of her imagination.

At the end of a twisting walkway, they emerged into a great chamber, wide and domed. In one wall the façade of a great building, a heathen temple or palace perhaps, was carved into the rock face, so large as to appear almost noble.

“Who enters this domain?” rasped a voice, both loud and soft at the same time, seemingly coming from all directions.

“One who will have your allegiance,” replied Aragorn, projecting into the darkness with remarkable composure.

“The Dead do not suffer the living to pass,” came the voice once more, the sound convalescing before their eyes into a shadowy figure of a sickly hue, tarnished circlet upon his head. He laughed, and the sound echoed off the chamber’s walls until it became transfigured into something strangely mournful, almost like a funeral song. As if summoned by the mirthless laughter, more ghostly figures appeared, their forms shifting and blurring as if being constantly tugged between this world and the next.

“The way is shut,” continued the crowned figure, “only the dead may travel it.”

“I summon you to fulfill your oath,” announced Aragorn.

“None but the King of Gondor can command me,” replied the apparition, lifting his unearthly weapon and swinging it down with the intention of cleaving Aragorn in two. But Aragorn merely lifted his own sword, easily deflecting the blow to the obvious surprise of the spectral figure.

“That line was broken,” he sputtered between formless lips.

“It has been remade,” replied Aragorn, holding his sword aloft for all the assembled Dead to see. “Fight for us,” he continued, voice booming to fill the cavernous chamber, “and regain your honour. What say you?”

His words were met with only silence. “What say you?!” he repeated, with even more force behind his words.

The laughter rose again from the crowned man, this time joined by the rest of the phantom army. The sound made Eowyn’s skin crawl, this joyless mockery of laughter. A lesser man would have been cowed by the cruel, keening sound, but Aragorn merely stood his ground, determined confidence etched in every line of his face.

When the laugher had finally subsided, the sallow figure leaned in close, peered intently into Aragorn’s face and announced with a sneer, “we fight!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	11. Osgiliath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nelwen and Annamir arrive in Osgiliath. Then Boromir rocks up! I have so much love for Boromir.

Annamir had seen some pretty spectacular things over the last few months: the proud, colossal monument of The Argonath; towering Mallorn trees with bark that glimmered like gilt; Eowyn dancing in the Golden Hall of Edoras, cheeks flushed with drink and happiness. And yet all these sights paled in comparison to the glorious _magnificence_ of Osgiliath. Even with her walls torn asunder, her towers lying crooked upon the ground, she held herself with nobility.

Standing again in the mighty old city, she took a deep breath of _home_.

It smelt like sweat, stagnant water and orc viscera, and she immediately regretted it.

Osgiliath had deteriorated a great deal since Annamir had last walked through its rubble-strewn streets, a somewhat remarkable achievement considering it hadn’t been that long since she’d left. The group hurried through the streets with backs bowed and heads low to avoid the constant barrage of arrows. Catapults from the east side of the river sent great rocks crashing into the already damaged buildings, throwing clouds of dust and rubble into the air and raining down on the soldiers below. Annamir found it an oddly nostalgic sound, the patter of debris as it tumbled to the ground.

Turning a corner into a small encampment relatively sheltered from the constant air assault, Annamir found herself face-to-face with a number of her old friends and comrades-at-arms. Their faces lit up when they saw her, leaving aside their equipment repairs and unfortunate-looking food to greet her with crushing hugs and ungentlemanly comments about her mother (a common greeting among friends). Annamir felt fondness rushing over her. She returned their hugs with gusto, rejoined with her own ribald comments regarding their supposedly questionable parentage. After the tension of the last few days, and her disappointment at finding so much distrust among people she considered her brothers, Annamir found it an immense relief to be welcomed in her home city. She was almost enjoying herself. 

Over her shoulder, Nelwen stood still and tense, eyeing these new soldiers with the same disapproval with which she’d come to eye the rangers from Ithilien. After discovering that she carried the Ring, even those rangers previously friendly to her had started to eye her with naked hostility, with open contempt. She returned them the same kindness.

“Annamir! You dirty, half-witted, cock-sure arsehole with delusions of competence! What in blazes are you doing here?!” came a cry from a nearby doorway and Anna turned with a wicked grin to greet her old commander and friend.

“Boromir! You empty-headed, thick-skulled brute!” she replied, pulling him into an embrace. “I’m here to save your sorry arse from near certain death, as always. How did you let my city get into such a state?!”

Annamir felt bad when she saw his face drop at her comment. She’d meant it in jest but clearly the demise of Osgiliath pained him as much as it pained her, maybe even more so. Annamir was young and had few memories of Osgiliath before its fall into ruin (although what memories she did have had acquired almost mythological importance over the years). But Boromir remembered the city as she used to be, revered her as the old centre of all human culture; to see her in ruins must have been a daily torture.

Looking upon her old friend once more, Annamir felt her confidence grow, her spirits lifted for the first time in days. Boromir was a legend throughout Gondor. A man of great strength and bravery, his immense height and stern features gave him an intimidating presence. But despite his daunting appearance, he was a compassionate commander, a loyal friend, and an excellent drinker. With a great mind for strategy and tactics (though little care for lore or philosophy), he had led his men to victory on countless occasions. While she didn’t always agree with Boromir, finding him almost as stubborn as herself, she respected him immeasurably.

When Faramir entered the camp, he greeted his brother with such ferocious warmth that Annamir felt a strange pang of grief for her own brothers. The two eldest were long dead, felled by orcs when Osgiliath was lost. She had been furious at the time, leaning on her anger to lessen the sorrow, railing against the father who had insisted they join the Gondorian army despite a complete lack of ability at arms. Her youngest brother still lived, though a powerful illness contracted several years ago had left him immobile and incommunicative, a mere shell of a man. She visited him as often as she could (though not as often as she perhaps should) and sent him letters and gifts from her travels. Annamir had been deprived of so much in her life that she no longer felt the harsh sting of loss, only a dull, distant ache. She was surprised at how those feelings of a grief long suppressed came flooding back at the sight of Boromir and Faramir’s happy reunion.

“What brings you here, brother?” asked Boromir, “I thought your men were laying ambushes for the Haradrim entering Mordor.”

The awkward silence from Faramir’s men, their shifting weight and evasive eyes, made Boromir noticeably nervous.

“We come baring a great gift!” announced Steve, finally breaking the hush. Boromir looked intrigued by Steve’s statement but his expression remained mostly sceptical. Annamir’s expression remained mostly murderous and she struggled to remember why she had once called Steve friend.

Steve grabbed Nelwen by the arm, dragged her forward to Boromir, who regarded her with surprise, as if only just noticing her. She looked positively wretched. “This elf comes from Rivendell,” explained Steve. “She brings Isildur’s Bane!”

At that Boromir’s eyebrows leapt to his hairline and he gave Nelwen an oddly searching look. There was astonishment in his eyes but also apprehension and, Anna feared, something like curiosity. 

“The Ring of Power once more in the hands of men,” he said, voice reverent. “This is indeed a wondrous gift.”

“It is no gift!” yelled Annamir, desperate not to repeat the events of the wood, desperate to keep Nelwen safe from prying hands. “It is a terrible burden. We have to destroy it! You must help us to Mordor; you must help us!”

“Destroy it? The greatest weapon that has ever existed and you want us to _destroy_ it?” asked Boromir, though his voice lacked the anger with which the rangers had spoken in the woods; his eyes lacking their frenzy.

“This weapon will not change our fortunes. The best hope we have for victory is to destroy the Ring as soon as possible. To relieve Sauron of that which gives him power,” said Faramir, voice steady and calm.

Boromir stood pensively for a time and the assembled rangers and soldiers regarded him expectantly. Finally, he smiled, broad but a little forced. He nodded as he clapped his brother on the shoulder, “I accepted a long time ago that you are the wiser of us, Faramir. If you say that the Ring needs to be destroyed, then that is what we shall do,” he said, his unsteady voice betraying what was perhaps a lack of conviction. There was obvious relief on Faramir’s face. A part of him had doubted what his brother would do, doubted whether his brother would resist the allure of the ring and support him in calling for its destruction. He now felt ashamed at his lack of faith in his brother.

Annamir wondered whether any of the rangers would object, whether they would press their point until Boromir yielded. But they appeared content, and if they had their misgivings, none dared voice opposition to the legendary commander. Steve and the rest of his malcontented rangers skulked off, giving Nelwen glowers as they left. She glowered back.

“Now come!” announced Boromir, extending a hand to Nelwen in a welcoming gesture. “What little hospitality we have is at your disposal. Regain what strength you can in this forsaken place; I expect you will need it for Mordor.”

Nelwen did not take his hand. Instead looking at it distrustfully as she walked passed to settle next to the campfire. Annamir, conversely, thanked him profusely, shook his hand with vigour. When they all gathered around the fire to eat, rangers and soldiers, humans and lone elf, the tension that had dogged the two women for several days finally started to subside. Confident that she was among friends now once more, Annamir let herself relax, let herself laugh and tell her stories. Osgiliath may have changed, her old ranger company may have changed, but sitting around the fire and telling jokes among friends, that always stayed the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	12. Liberating Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the last Eowyn chapter – this came out in like 10 minutes! I love chapters like this because I get to do lots of nerdy research and look at maps for all the place names and titles.

The Dead Men of Dunharrow led Aragorn and Eowyn through the Paths of the Dead and out into the province of Lamedon at the foot of the Blackroot Vale. After so long walking through the dark and gloomy tunnels of the Dwimorberg, Eowyn was delighted to once again lay her eyes upon the sky, even grey and overcast as it was. A bracing wind stung her face and she rejoiced at the feeling. As a lady of Rohan, Eowyn was not meant for twisting tunnels and endless shadow; she was meant for wide open plains, for sun dusting pale skin with freckles and for wind rifling through unbound hair.

Aragorn and Eowyn travelled across the lush valley region of Lamedon, heading east toward Minas Tirith where they hoped to rejoin the Riders of Rohan. Eowyn had never crossed the White Mountains, never gazed upon the rolling green hills and ancient cities of South Gondor, and she drank in the view greedily. Lamedon was a particularly fertile land thanks to the rivers, Ringlo and Ciril, and Eowyn had heard that the variety and abundance of plant life rivalled that of even the elven kingdoms. She wished it was summer and she could see the land at its best, when the trees were green and the hills garlanded with bright wildflowers.

Annamir had always spoken of the beauty of Gondor and also of its plight at the hands of Sauron’s armies. Now that they were in Gondor, the duo found that Anna was right on both counts. The southern fiefdoms were in turmoil, having been ravaged for many months by invaders from Umbar and Harad.

While many smaller settlements in Lamedon had fallen afoul of the Umbar corsair’s brutal onslaught, the main focus of their attacks seemed to be the town of Linhir, a strategic port town at the confluence of the Gilrain and Serni rivers. If Linhir fell to Sauron’s enemies, they would have control of the fords over the River Gilrain and also the road to Ethring, a key strategic advantage.

With the Dead Men at their disposal, Aragorn and Eowyn swept into the port, crushing the enemy mercilessly. Eowyn didn’t understand how weapons that seemed to shift in and out of thin air could still manage to cleave a man in two but she couldn’t deny that they were a powerful and fear-inducing army. With the battle won, Aragorn approached the Lord of Lamedon, Angbor the Fearless, and bade him gather his men and follow him to Minas Tirith. Grateful for Aragorn’s assistance, and in awe of the Dead Army he commanded, Angbor readily agreed.

Leading the men of Lamedon and the Dead Men of Dunharrow, Aragorn and Eowyn continued south to Anfalas. There, Eowyn stood upon the white cliffs of Ollo, seeming to glow even in the meager winter light, and looked upon the sea for the first time. While of course nothing could compare to the grasslands of Rohan, to the rolling meadows and the noble peaks of the White Mountains, she had to admit that there was something glorious in the sight of the Great Sea before her, an iridescent mantle of sparkling, deep blue as far as the eyes could see. 

Anfalas had been a magnificent elven kingdom until its inhabitants had sailed to the west at the time of the fall of Eregion. Then the region had become a prosperous and mighty kingdom of men, its coast dotted with many vibrant market towns. But now the beautiful coastal region was in decline and the Lord of Anfalas, Lord Golasgil, had few well-armed knights at his command. The rest of his ranks were filled with hunters, herdsmen and villagers, all poorly equipped. The corsairs of Umbar would have made easy work of the Anfalas forces had Aragorn and Eowyn not arrived with the men of Lamedon and the Dead Men in their wake. Moving from town to town, Aragorn and his growing army purged the land of invaders, bringing peace to a fiefdom long plagued with violence.

With Anfalas rid of the corsairs, Aragorn’s swelling forces continued toward Minas Tirith. As they travelled east through the southern fiefdoms of Gondor, rumours started to spread, rumours that the heir of Isildur had returned, that he marched to Minas Tirith to restore the glory of Gondor. Hope was spreading through the kindgoms of men, and more and more people rallied to their lords, offering themselves, or horses and supplies, to the growing army.

The further east they travelled, the more Aragorn and Eowyn heard of a devastating siege against the port city of Pelargir. Refugees spoke of the destruction laid upon the city in hushed tones, as if speaking about the devastation out loud was an invocation of misfortune. Upon arriving in Lebennin, Aragorn prepared his followers for a decisive showdown with the Umbar.

Over 50 ships held the city of Pelargir captive. The men of Umbar, with blackened armour and painted faces, slaughtered everyone they encountered, setting fire to buildings as they ransacked the city. Thick, dark smoke billowed above the city like the black sails billowing atop the Umbar ships. The smell was pervasive and fetid, rolling across the plains for miles around. Eowyn’s nose burnt, the stench settling into clothes and hair.

The Dead Men and the armies gathered by Aragorn descended upon the corsairs of Umbar with relish, spurned on by the sight of a once beautiful city rent to pieces, by the cries of her people as they succumbed to the corsairs’ brutality. The ensuing battle was brief and brutal. While the fighters of Umbar were supremely skilled, the men of Gondor fought with the kind of staggering strength that only comes from seeing one’s homeland in flames. Those corsairs who did not succumb to the sword, fled in droves, some diving into the Anduin River in a desperate attempt to escape the fighting only to be claimed by the river.

With the black Umbar ships emptied of their former crew, Aragorn’s men took control of the vessels. The journey north to Minas Tirith would be far swifter by boat. Standing on the prow of the Umbar chief’s schooner, Eowyn looked down along the winding path of the Anduin River, the now barren orchards of Lossarnach to the west and the forbidding grey wall of the Ash Mountains to the east. She heard someone approach from behind and knew it to be Aragorn. They’d been travelling together for so long now that she recognised his footfalls, the way his breath sometimes caught when he was tired.

“Refugees from the Vale say that Osgiliath is close to collapse. Swarms of orcs patrol Ithilien and there is strange activity from Minas Morgul. Do you think they’re safe?” Eowyn asked him when he was near enough, her voice so soft it was almost lost under the sound of the wind whipping in the rigging.

“They are safe,” he replied simply, leaving no pause for doubt.

Eowyn smiled at him, always dependable for steady reassurance. But instead of returning her smile, he looked down at the deck, suddenly pensive.

“Eowyn, I must apologise for the things I said to you before leaving Dunharrow. I misjudged your motives,” he turned to face her, took her hands firmly in his. “Your presence has been invaluable, your prowess with a sword even more so.”

She gave a short chuckle at that, shrugged to show that he hadn’t caused any permanent offence. “You’re not the first person to underestimate me. And you won’t be the last.”

“I expect you are right. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be for you, having everyone misjudge you. Even those who should believe in you the most: your family and friends.” He paused a moment, then added. “How _did_ you persuade your brother and the King to let you go?”

Eowyn looked nervous then, looking away from him and carefully extracting her hands.

“You didn’t tell them?!” he asked with dismay.

“They wouldn’t have let me go!”

He rubbed his hand across his face and groaned, “your brother’s going to kill me.”

“Don’t worry,” she smirked, needling her elbow into his ribs. “I’ll protect you.”

He laughed then, loud and unguarded, and Eowyn wondered whether she’d ever heard his laugh before. It was a nice sound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	13. The Fall of Osgiliath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets real in Osgiliath.
> 
> This is looong! Took an absolute age to write. But I think I like it?

Crouched in the darkness, Nelwen waited.

Sitting low on her haunches, she pressed her back into the stone wall behind her. Cold seeped from the wall and through her clothes, making her skin tingle unpleasantly. She held her bow aloft, arrow at the ready, and trained across the river. The weapon felt comfortable in her hand, the wood warm, its weight familiar. She’d been a competent archer when she’d left Rivendell, well-practiced but lacking in any real finesse. In only a few short months her skills had improved immeasurably. She hit her mark even while moving, aimed and fired with remarkable swiftness. Now waiting for whatever horrors might emerge from the mists ahead, Nelwen was pleasantly surprised at how confident she felt.

When the besieged city had fallen silent, many had suspected that Sauron’s forces had withdrawn, that they now circled the city so they could attack from the north. A scouting party was prepared. They would head to the stronghold on Cair Andros, see if they could decipher the enemy’s tactics from there. But before they could depart, Nelwen had counselled them to stay. For her elven ears could hear scraping metal, the sound of rippling water, and muffled trampling, orcs attempting to walk silently but utterly incapable of doing so. Something was approaching from the river.

The rangers had been hesitant at first, unsure whether to trust the elf who had done little but glower at them since she’d arrived in the city several days before. But she had no reason to deceive them and Annamir had urged them to heed her warning. Several rangers may have distrusted Annamir but the majority still considered her friend, still remembered the many times she had saved their lives. And so the garrison had prepared themselves, stationing their numbers at strategic points along the river to await the approaching orcs.

Nelwen risked a brief glance down from her high vantage point in a ruined building to where Annamir crouched at ground level. As always before a battle, she sported an unnerving grin, her whole body bouncing in anticipation on the pads of her feet. As if sensing that she was being observed (and perhaps she had; she was, after all, a ranger), she looked up at Nelwen, nodded enthusiastically like a dog about to be fed.

A sound from the river drew the elf’s attention and she turned to peer into the grey haze. There – hulking black forms, the dull glint of tarnished metal and the distinctive sucking sound of heavy boots on wet sand. Finally, they had come.

She pulled her bowstring taut, took in a slow breath, then released the arrow as she exhaled. The arrow found its target with a satisfying thuck, piercing into bulbous flesh at the juncture of neck and shoulder. With a startled cry, the unlucky orc fell to the ground.

The men of Gondor surged forwards from their hiding places, stabbing and hacking at the stunned orcs. Clearly they had not been expecting a concerted resistance. Arrows rained down from archers perched high among the ruined buildings of Osgiliath and soon a wall of corpses marked the riverbank. But the orcs’ numbers were great and the garrison’s early advantage was soon negated due to the sheer size of their enemy’s forces. Forced to abandon her post as the orcs streamed through the buildings nearest to the river, Nelwen leapt to the ground and started weaving through the debris-riddled streets of the once mighty city. Ducking and diving through crumbling buildings, she stopped and turned periodically only long enough to fire off a few arrows into her pursuers.

Finding herself alarmingly low on arrows, Nel dove through a sagging doorway into a room made hidden by the dark. Returning her bow to her back, she unsheathed her elven dagger, pivoted it in one hand in mimicry of her teacher. She wasn’t as comfortable with her dagger as her bow but the state of her quiver made its use necessary.

Suddenly a human, tall and dark, lumbered into the room, probably seeking temporary shelter just as she. He looked a little surprised at first to see her pressed against the wall with dagger drawn but he smiled at her and quipped, “the pointy end goes into the soft doughy bits.”

“What remarkable insight,” she replied, voice dripping in sarcasm, “and here I thought the Commander of Gondor was all brawn and no brain.”

Boromir cracked a smile, eyes alive with good humour. Standing before her now, sword and shield in hand, face crinkled in amusement, she could understand why his men followed him with such devotion. His stature exuded strength and vigour, the bearing of a natural leader, but his face held such warmth that she imagined everyone saw him as friend. But as the sounds of battle invaded their hiding place, the clanging of swords and the cries of the dying, the cheer fell from his face and a stony resignation took its place.

“Osgiliath has fallen; I must order a retreat,” he said quietly, haltingly, as if ashamed to admit it.

“What lives can be saved here will ensure that Minas Tirith does not fall,” Nelwen offered in a poor attempt at consolation.

His head jerked up at her words and he regarded her with severe, determined eyes. Nel withered under his gaze, feeling strangely violated by its intensity. 

“If only I had the strength to defend my people,” he continued, slowly stalking towards her. Nelwen tried to step back but the wall was already flush against her spine. “Maybe you could _lend_ me the Ring. I could use it to protect Osgiliath – then help you in your quest for Mordor.”

She clutched at the chain around her neck. “I understand your fears for Gondor, Boromir, but the Ring is not the mighty weapon you hope it to be. It only knows betrayal. It _must_ be destroyed.”

Still he stalked closer, until his tall form loomed above her. “You think you can enter into Mordor without being caught by Sauron’s armies? They will find you, they will take the Ring and you will beg for death before the end. What ruin will you bring upon us when you fail? When Sauron regains that which gives him unstoppable power?” 

“Step back!” she commanded, pushing all her authority into her voice. “You are not yourself!”

He grabbed her shoulders, held her with such ferocity that his fingertips bit into her flesh. “It’s not yours save for unhappy chance. It could have been mine!” He gave her tiny figure a mighty shake. “Give it to me!” 

With a terrified yelp she lashed out, jabbing her fingers into his eye. He screamed, loud and guttural, lifting his hands instinctively to cup his weeping eye. Free from his grip, Nel ducked and made to leave the room. She was barely across the threshold of the doorway when she felt a strong hand on her wrist. With a harsh yank she was brought face-to-face with the Commander and she kicked at his knee in the hope that the pain would cause him to loosen his grip. 

Instead his fist connected with her face and the world went sideways.

With her face pressed to the dirt and a determined drumming behind her ears, Nelwen was only dimly aware of the hands clumsily trying to unclasp the chain around her neck. She felt Boromir’s breath close enough to make the skin on the back of her neck clammy and, with the same unnatural strength that had come to her in the forest, she smacked her head backward and into Boromir’s nose. He recoiled long enough for Nelwen to roll out from under him and stumble to her feet. Her head was pounding, her assault probably hurting her as much as it hurt Boromir, but her need to protect the Ring overpowered all over feelings. 

Nelwen ran.

Buildings and bodies, orcs fighting and humans dying, all the sights of battle around her blurred together as she ran with an unrelenting drive. She heard neither the thrum of arrows nor the clang of steel, only the whisper of the Ring, coursing under her skin and settling behind her eyeballs. Someone had threatened the Ring, _tried to take it from her_ , and now nothing mattered except keeping her precious gift safe. 

The chilling shriek of the Nazgul was the only thing that managed to penetrate the Ring’s murmuring and Nelwen came to an unsteady stop as her senses abruptly reawakened. The humans around her dove and wept in fear at the Nazgul’s arrival but Nelwen merely stood, rendered immobile by her confusion. She didn’t recognise this part of the city, nor the faces that surrounded her, and she felt almost physically _pained_ at the realisation that she was alone, that her friends were nowhere to be seen. Her whole face throbbed from Boromir’s punch, the pain stabbing into her left cheekbone and then blossoming outward, and her limbs ached from her mad dash through the streets.

“Nelwen!” came a panicked voice from behind and she turned to see Faramir bounding towards her. She had never in her life been more grateful to see a familiar face. “Blazes, are you ok?” he asked, tentatively placing a hand against her cheek. She flinched at the pain but nuzzled her face into his hand anyway, so relieved to feel a comforting touch.

A Nazgul’s fell beast swooped low overhead, picking up the Gondorian soldiers unable to reach cover in time and ripping their bodies apart. “Come!” cried Faramir, grabbing her hand and leading her through the city. “The city is lost!” he shouted over the cacophonous rumble of battle, “we must retreat to Minas Tirith.”

Together they snaked through the streets, eventually turning a corner and emerging into a wide courtyard. Nelwen felt an overwhelming surge of joy at the sight of Annamir helping injured soldiers onto horseback. She even felt a strange twinge of happiness at the sight of Smeagol skulking and trembling among the rubble. Annamir’s face erupted into a grin at the sight of her friend and the two women greeted each other with a fierce embrace.

“The city has fallen,” said Faramir, “we must retreat to Minas Tirith.”

“No,” Annamir countered with a firm shake of her head. “Nelly and I need to get to Mordor.”

“If you can reach the old sewers in the north of the city, you can follow them under the river and to the edge of the city. You can seek cover in the forest. Do you remember the way?”

Annamir looked at him as if grossly offended by the question, one eyebrow sharply arched, mouth curled into a sneer. There were few places she knew better than her home city. 

Even surrounded by screams of horror, Faramir managed to summon a chuckle in response to Annamir’s over-exaggerated scowl. “I wish I could come with you, aide you in your quest. But I belong with my men.”

“Of course, Faramir; I understand. Thank you, for everything” said Annamir, clapping him fiercely on the shoulder and trying to convey in her eyes just how much she appreciated the help he had given her over the last weeks.

Nelwen, too, wanted to thank the captain; wanted to tell him how much she valued his unwavering support when the other rangers had treated her with such suspicion and animosity. But she found herself uncharacteristically incapable of conjouring the right words. Instead she rose to the tips of her toes and placed a clumsy kiss to the corner of his mouth. At first he froze, clearly startled by the press of her lips against his skin, but then he relaxed into her, curling a hand around her wrist as if afraid she might bolt.

With great reluctance, she pulled back, looking up at his surprised face through the fan of her lashes and smiling crookedly. From beside her, Annamir gave a sharp nod of her head to indicate that it was time to leave. The men of Gondor were in full retreat, the forces of Sauron fast approaching, and it wouldn’t be long until their position was overrun. 

Leaving a slightly stunned captain behind them, Annamir and Nelwen wove through the city with Smeagol in tow. With long-sword and dagger drawn, the two women fought in tandem, falling into the easy rythem with which they’d always fought together. Scurrying into the old sewers to leave the city of Osgiliath and the rangers of Ithilien behind them, Nelwen was oddly pleased at the prospect of being alone again. The rangers had made her edgy, their mere presence felt like a threat to her Ring. But Annamir could be trusted, Annamir made her stronger, and their quest to Mordor would be easier just the two of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	14. Welcome to Mordor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We finally reach Mordor!
> 
> This section was going to be really short! And then it ended up – not…

Nelwen had known that Mordor would be grim; had read of its barren wastes, its air thick with sulphur and ash, its sky forever blackened by clouds. But there was something to be said for seeing it with her own two eyes. With the forests of Ithilien barely visible behind her, Nelwen tried to brace herself for a punishing climb through ashen peaks and pock-marked gullies. She could hear neither the calling of birds nor the chittering of insects, only the sound of thunder, coming not as distinct claps but a constant, burbling rumble. Other than her travelling companions, the only living thing she could see was the brambles, leafless and gnarled. They clawed at booted feet, as if trying to warn her against continuing any further. 

They had only been climbing through the mountains for a few hours, and it would still be some time before they reached Mordor in earnest, but Nelwen was already feeling the affects of Mordor upon her. The Ring was feeling heavier, the chain around her neck biting mercilessly in flesh. Occasionally she scratched at the chain in a vain effort to alleviate the stinging but instead she only worried the flesh into bleeding.

The trio continued up the rocky slopes of Ephel Duath, treading carefully err unstable rocks sent them tumbling into the numerous crags that scarred the mountains. When they were high enough up the mountains that nothing living grew, Nelwen found herself peculiarly pining for the brambles.   

Nelwen and Annamir had been quiet for some time, idle chatter seeming somewhat inappropriate in such a dismal place.

“Do you know what was nice?” Nelwen asked at length, earning a sidelong glance from Annamir. “Lothlorien – Lothlorien was nice. Golden leaves that sparkled in the late evening sun, deep green grass underfoot, gentle streams that shone like glass. We should have stayed there.”

Annamir nodded, face pensive as if giving Nelwen’s comment serious, academic thought.

“Amon Hen was nice,” she said after a long pause.

Nelwen’s face crinkled in confusion. “You got shot.”

“Yeah but before I got shot it was very pretty.”

Nelwen laughed, shaking her head in dismay at her ridiculous friend. Annamir only grinned in return.

After nearly a day of walking, they came across an exposed ridge and Smeagol started jumping and beckoning the women closer. “Look!” he said, pointing over the ridge, “the Dead City; very nasty place.”

The two women peered tentatively over the curtain of stone to the ancient city just below. A great tower thrust angrily into the blackened sky, the districts of the city arranged around it like spokes on a wheel. The wall surrounding the city was tall and grey, streaked with black as if the stone itself was weeping.

Nelwen cocked her head like a curious dog. “It’s kind of pretty,” she commented absent-mindedly.

“Are you fucking nuts? It’s bloody grim!”

“There’s a _tragic elegance_ to it,” Nel insisted. “The tall, sleak lines. It must have been a grand place indeed before it was claimed by the Nazgul.”

Minas Ithil had been built by Isildur to be his seat for ruling over the fief of Ithilien. It had been a beautiful city, noble in its symmetry, dominated by its striking pale tower that appeared almost like silver when silhouetted against night skies. It had been called the Tower of the Rising Moon. Nelwen wished she’d had the opportunity to see it in all its kingly glory. 

But the city was now cloaked in a foreboding mantle, its silvery radiance now dimmed, and the trio was keen not to linger. Following Smeagol’s lead, the women quickly clambered over the crest of the ridge and started scurrying down to the path that would take them past the condemned city.

“Come quick – they will see us!” Smeagol whispered with desperate intensity, leading them toward a narrow path that cut through the rocks and up into a seemingly endless staircase.

Slinking passed the gateway to Minas Morgul, the three companions were suddenly sent toppling to the ground when the earth gave a mighty shudder and a great pillar of sickly, pale light burst from the imposing tower and into the black above. The whole ground trembled beneath their prone bodies and Nelwen noted with a sickening lurch of her stomach that the doors were opening, that a horde of booted feet was marching towards them. Annamir and Smeagol immediately scrambled for cover but Nelwen sat strangely transfixed by the luminous beam of light.

Her hand started slowly stroking up her chest before ducking into her tunic in search of the Ring. The Ring would protect her! The Ring would hide her from the approaching army! She desperately sought out the feel of cool, comfortable metal.

“No!” came a rough voice, and Nelwen looked over her shoulder to see Annamir kneeling at her back, looking at her with a fierce expression. When Nel’s hand didn’t immediately retreat from its hunt for the Ring, Anna brusquely pushed her hand under Nelwen’s tunic and took her hand in her own. She entwined their fingers, gave Nel’s hand an insistent squeeze, and pulled her friend from the ground. Following the ranger on curiously unsteady feet, Nelwen trailed after her to the nearby cover before falling bonelessly to the floor.

Nelwen curled in on herself, still gripping fiercely to Anna’s hand. From the rumble of the ground, the pound of marching feet, Nelwen knew that the orcs must be marching past their hiding spot but she dared not move to peak out from their cover. “The light must be a signal,” murmured Annamir at her side, “the final battle for Gondor has begun.” Annamir spoke with such soft mourning that Nelwen wasn’t sure whether she was talking to her or offering some prayer into the stifling air.

They sat like that for a time, huddled and miserable, their joined hands like a lifeline between them, until Smeagol began to insist that they continue. The longer they tarried, the more likely their discovery. Wordlessly, the two women pulled themselves from the ground and followed Smeagol toward the crooked steps hewn carelessly into the rocks above them. Even though the path was narrow, the ground constantly shifting between their feet, the women never let go of each other as they ascended the mountains away from the Dead City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nelwen and Annamir basically hold hands for the rest of the story!
> 
> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	15. The Last Bastion of Gondor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn and Eowyn finally reach Minas Tirith. I have so much love for Eowyn.

Eowyn’s thumb tapped rhythemically against the hilt of her spatha. The steady drumming did little to alleviate her nervous energy and her whole body was coiled tight with anticipation. It had been many weeks since she’d departed the camp at Dunharrow, slipped away unseen before dawn, and she could scarcely believe she was finally approaching Minas Tirith and the battle that would define the Third Age. They had already heard from refugees in Lossarnach that Osgiliath had fallen, that the garrison had retreated to the capital and Sauron’s forces now advanced in pursuit. She prayed that they were not too late.

The sleek black ships of the Umbar, narrow and sharp like an arrow head, slid across the water into the Harlond port just south of Minas Tirith. Eowyn could hear a great din from outside of the ship, the heavy feet and grating shrieks of orcs as they gathered on the docks, preparing to meet with the Umbar forces to attack Minas Tirith from yet another front. A wicked smile curled her lips; they were about to be sorely disappointed.

“Hurry up you sea rats,” came the impatient shout of an orc commander, harsh and strident. Aragorn placed a hand on Eowyn’s shoulder, gave it an encouraging squeeze, before throwing himself over the side of the ship, landing on the dock with a solid thud. Eowyn soon followed, feeling a thrill of exhilaration as she flung herself from the cramped confines of the ship to face the enemy.

The orcs stood silent and unmoving, faces pinched in confusion at the sight of the two humans standing on the dock with swords drawn. It took a moment for the orcs to realise that the ships did not contain the Umbar reinforcements as expected, a moment for them to reach for their broad-swords, but by then it was too late as the Dead Men and the army Aragorn had collected travelling the southern fiefdoms of Gondor spilled from the ships and ploughed into the orc front lines.

Eowyn charged forward, lending her voice to the piercing battle cry unleashed by the army of men. With wide, confident sweeps, she cut into the orc lines, her spatha finding soft, yielding flesh between the dark plates of orcish armour. An orc charged forward with dual daggers scything the air in tight circles. Timing her attack carefully, she thrust her sword upwards, caught both daggers mid-slice, pushed back with all her might while kicking the orc in the knee. He doubled over in pain and she put him out of his misery by bringing her blade down across the nape of his neck. The head spun off into the throng of battle, leaving the aimless corpse to idly drop to the ground.

Eowyn had long been skilled with a sword, devoting many hours to dedicated practice. But the last few weeks with Aragorn had proven invaluable in improving her technique as she’d fought her way across Gondor from Erech to Pelargir, slaying Umbar and Haradrim alike in support of the Gondorian lords. She moved with a new confidence, held her weapon with the poise that only comes through experience.

The Dead Men and the armies of Gondor made quick work of the orc force that had assembled in the port. With the last orc slain, the men started re-forming their ranks for the final push toward Minas Tirith. Looking out across the Pelennor Fields, Eowyn could see the Riders of Rohan engaging with Sauron’s armies and watched with growing dismay at the sight of the Southrons’ mumakils decimating the Rohirrim’s numbers with their barbed tusks and stampeding feet. Only mere months ago the sight may have caused her to tremble with fear, now she only stood with a determined resolve, spatha held firm and sure in both hands. 

Aragorn jumped onto a low wall at the head of the army’s ranks, bellowed with a voice that projected authority and conviction, “men of Gondor, we come at last to our great capital, the mighty bastion of our people. It is here that the fate of the race of men will be decided. It is here that our brave brothers and sisters are making their _last stand_ against the forces of Sauron. Will you stand with them?!”

A roar of agreement rippled through the assembled army.

“Will you fight?!”

The roar intensified until Eowyn heard nothing, not even her own voice, above the shouts.

“Will you be victorious?”

A triumphant cacophony unlike anything she had heard before gripped the army of men and they surged together from the port toward where the battle raged. Eowyn ran with an unexpected vigour, her muscles strong, her pace unwavering. This was the greatest battle of the Third Age and she was going to prove that she was worthy of being there, worthy of fighting and dying alongside the men of Gondor in defence of all that she loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	16. Cirith Ungol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gollum leads Annamir and Nelwen to Cirith Ungol. Then Annamir devises an ill-advised plan; no one is surprised.

Annamir was an excellent rock-climber.

When she was a child, her father would take her and her brothers to Emyn Arnen to visit the long abandoned homes of the Numenorean nobles. But since her father believed that suffering was essential for building character, he made them climb the sheer rock faces rather than hike the scenic, tree-lined paths up the mountains. And so Annamir had been forced to learn the proper climbing techniques from an early age: to keep her arms straight, to push with her legs, to lower her centre of gravity and rotate her hips. Even her brothers, deemed utterly useless in most things by their father, were highly accomplished climbers.

Anna had therefore expected the ascent into the Morgul Pass to be relatively simple. Surely the climb would be no harder than climbing Mount Redwater in the Iron Hills or Mount Lindon in the Blue Mountains, both of which she’d free-climbed during less than ideal weather conditions.

And so it was with great distress that Annamir found herself clinging to a rocky outcropping, wheezing desperately and trying not to whimper. Her muscles throbbed, her joints creaked and the skin on her hands had been ripped raw, leaving bloody grooves across her fingertips. She felt mild relief that Nelwen sat in a similarly miserable state next to her, taking great gulping breaths following their recent ascent of only a couple of metres. Of course Nelwen was also burdened with the Ring of Power, the weight of which was apparently increasing with every step they took toward Barad-dur. But Anna tried to ignore that fact for the sake of preserving her fragile ego.

“Come, come,” called Gollum from a few metres higher up the pass, “there is no time to rest.” 

“We _need_ to rest,” replied Anna firmly, making no attempt to move despite Gollum’s cajoling.

“What’s next, Smeagol?” asked Nelwen, her voice sounding dry and gravelly and not at all like the soft, lilting voice that Annamir had come to know so well over the months.

“We follow the Morgul Pass to the Tower of Cirith Ungol, then onward to the Plateau of Gorgoroth.”

“Cirith Ungol? “Spider’s Cleft”? I have faced giant spiders before in Mirkwood,” said Nel, nose scrunched in disapproval, “it is not an experience I would like to repeat. Are you sure this is the only route?”

Annamir listened to Nelwen with growing alarm; she fucking hated spiders. She’d rather face down a dozen trolls than fight a giant spider. She’d rather sit and listen to a twelve-hour recitation of elven epic poetry than fight a giant spider. Annamir grew suspicious when she noted how Gollum shifted uncomfortably under Nelwen’s questioning. “What are you plotting?” she asked, eyes firmly on his in the hope that she would spot any attempt at deception.

“Plotting?! Plotting!” cried Gollum in dismay, “I would not plot against the Master!”

Nelwen rose from her seat, gave Gollum a reassuring pat to calm his wailing, earning her a frown from Annamir who found their odd relationship immensely creepy. If it was up to her, she would have left the miserable little beast in the wilderness of Ithilien a long time ago. But they needed a guide and had no real other option but to trust that he would lead them to Mount Doom as requested. He seemed genuinely fond of Nelwen, a fondness that had only grown after she’d defended him from the southern rangers, and Anna hoped that that would be enough to prevent him from betraying them.

After several more hours of climbing through the grey, twisted rocks of the Mountains of Shadow, Annamir caught the first glimpse of the Tower of Cirith Ungol, standing proud and indomitable against the mountain face near the highest ridge of the mountain range. A tall, black turret lurched skyward, supported by three tiers with battlements atop each wall. Orcs patrolled the length of each tier, and the discordant clamour that rose from the tower suggested that a large force was garrisoned there.

“We’ll never manage to sneak past,” whispered Nelwen. “Is there no other way around, Smeagol?”

“Not unless you want to meet _her_ , the one with eight legs that skitter in the darkness,” replied Gollum, his voice low and eyes gleaming with something wicked.

Annamir was not facing anything that fucking _skittered_. Confronted with a situation that was both dangerous and insurmountable, Anna did what she always did: she came up with a plan as ridiculous as it was ill-advised. Turning to Nelwen with a grin that was particularly unhinged, even by her standards, Annamir announced, “I have a plan.” She was pleased that Nel neither looked shocked nor attempted to argue but merely nodded her head wearily. Anna’s plans always worked best when everyone involved simply resigned themselves to their fate rather than trying to muddle things with good sense.

Anna positioned herself behind a rock next to the road that led to the tower’s gate, waited anxiously as Nelwen climbed higher up the mountain ridge. Nel was no longer as graceful and sure-footed as she’d been at the start of their journey and Annamir found watching her unsteady ascent nerve-wracking. When Nelwen was high enough, she pulled her bow from her back and notched an arrow. Having run perilously low on arrows in Osgiliath, she’d had to scavenge for arrows from the bodies of the dead, ending up with a fair number of orcish arrows among those made by men. It was one of these that she notched now, with a blackened shaft and ragged fletching. Once she’d taken her aim, she fired the arrow into the tower, following it with several more arrows in quick succession.

Now they’d see whether or not Annamir’s seemingly stupid plan was in fact genius.

A rumbling noise began deep in the tower, quarrelsome voices followed by the clash of metal on dull metal. Then the noise grew, spreading through the tower like a fire through the dry lands of South Gondor during a particularly fierce summer. Soon the noise erupted from the tower as groups of brawling orcs spilled through doorways and onto the battlements. The Uruk-hai and orcs were embroiled in fierce fighting, each side accusing the other of betrayal. Great-swords cleaved orcs in two while orcish blades were thrust between the weak spots in Uruk armour. The air was thick with the gurgling screams of orc and Uruk-hai alike and the pungent stench of blood started to burn the back of Annamir’s nose. The noise grew louder and louder and then, suddenly, silence descended upon the tower.

Cautiously, Anna peered out from behind the rock that concealed her. When she was satisfied that no orc patrols remained on the battlements, she approached the main gate in the tower’s south-eastern wall and pushed it open to take in the carnage wrought by Nelwen’s well-aimed arrows. She smiled, cruel and pleased, to see the carpet of black limbs covering the narrow courtyard at the bottom of the tower. The stupid beasts had torn each other apart, mistaking Nelwen’s arrows as an orcish betrayal.

Some movement from within the tower made Annamir still. Voices and heavy feet were approaching. Standing in the centre of the courtyard, she was too far from the gate to make a run for it, and she couldn’t see anywhere to hide either. Grinning in expectation, she unsheathed her long-sword and pivoted it in her hand to feel its weight. She preferred a straight battle to sneaking and hiding anyway.

A small group of barely a dozen Uruk-hai emerged from a shadowed entryway, staring at Anna with momentary surprise before charging with great-swords drawn. She stood her ground, ducking at the very last minute so that the momentum of the Uruk-hai at the front of the pack sent them careening past her and stumbling to the floor. She made quick work of the Uruk-hai left standing, plunging her sword into the neck of one before twisting around and stabbing another in the side. She wrenched the blade upward, still embedded in the Uruk-hai’s flank, to make sure she made as much damage as possible before pulling her sword out with a slick, slurping noise. She whirled on the remaining Uruk-hai, plunging her blade into unprotected flesh with uncanny accuracy and speed.

Annamir was just removing her sword from an Uruk-hai’s eye socket when she felt an excruciating pain explode in her shoulder. She staggered forward from the momentum of the blow and craned her neck to inspect the damage. A great-sword was embedded in her flesh, the jagged edge tearing skin and sinew. The Uruk-hai pulled his weapon from her shoulder with a rough tug and Annamir was sent crashing to the floor. Her pauldron had helped a great deal in minimising the force of the hit and she felt immensely grateful that her arm was still attached. But the gash was deep and the feel of blood rushing from her shoulder to soak the tunic beneath her chainmail was thoroughly disconcerting. Sprawled on her back, she tried to coerce her vision back into focus and immediately regretted it when she saw the terrible grin of the Uruk-hai looming over her.

Deciding it was too late in life to start praying, Annamir simply held the Uruk-hai’s stare and waited for the ending blow. Instead, the slender tip of a glowing blade appeared from the Uruk-hai’s throat and he fell to his knees with a wet, burbling groan. Behind him stood Nelwen, her elven dagger still embedded in the back of his neck. She placed her foot on the Uruk-hai’s shoulder and gave him a firm kick to remove him from the end of her dagger.

With the final Uruk-hai now lying dead beside her, Annamir would have felt pleased had she not been in such agonising pain. Nelwen knelt by her side, quickly removed her ruined pauldron, and gave the deep gash an indelicate prod. Annamir hissed in pain.

“Sorry,” said Nelwen, somewhat lacking in sincerity. She fumbled in her pack for a poultice and some bandages, applied them somewhat haphazardly. Annamir grimaced at the clumsy attempt to bind the gaping wound. Nelwen’s hands were shaking, exhausted from all the climbing, and she’d always lacked Aragorn’s natural skill for healing. Annamir was surprised to find that she kind of missed him. 

“This is a really nasty gash,” Nelwen said, wiping her clammy brow and smearing foul, black blood across her face in the process. 

“Yep,” Anna agreed through gritted teeth.

“This must _really_ hurt.”

She narrowed her eyes at Nelwen warningly, hissed out another “yep.”

“Looking on the bright side,” Nel said, smiling crookedly, “your stupid plan worked.”

Annamir grinned smugly, the pain almost forgotten as she basked in the success of yet another _genius_ plan. “Yep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	17. The Witch King of Angmar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn fights the Witch King! I have so much love for Eowyn.

King Theoden arched through the air, tossed aside, horse and all, with alarming ease by the Nazgul’s fell beast. He hit the dry, hard ground with a sickening thud, followed by a strangled scream when his horse landed atop his legs. Even from a distance, with the ruinous din of battle all around her, Eowyn could hear the distinctive pop of bones snapping. She wanted to be sick.

The beast advanced toward Theoden’s prone form slowly, almost ponderously, as if savouring each step. He opened his mouth to bear uneven rows of crooked, sharp teeth, made a snarl that started in a low rumble then crescendoed into a shrill, bird-like shriek 

Eowyn ran.

Even in armour specially made to preserve her agility, her limbs were tired from hours of fighting and it took all of her willpower to summon the strength to sprint across the battlefield. The fell beast snapped at the air, eager to feast, and unfurled its neck to reach out to the fallen King. Eowyn skidded to a stop in front of the King’s broken body, a determined bulwark against the fell beast’s advance. 

“I will kill you if you touch him,” she spat as she lunged for the fell beast, embedding her spatha deep into the dark flesh of its neck. It yielded easier than she expected, the blade slicing cleanly through skin, muscle and sinew. There was a grating noise when her sword met bone, a juddering scratch that made the back of her neck prickle. With a wrathful shriek, Eowyn pushed with all her might, sawing the blade back and forth until she heard a satisfying crack and the beast’s head fell to the ground.

The colossal, blackened creature lumbered back and forth, the futile movements of a dying body. Limbs spasmed, bent and distorted at hideous angles, until finally the beast fell, hitting the ground with a resounding thud. But Eowyn had no time to celebrate her victory against the fell beast as the tall, shadowy form of the Witch-King stepped from the mangled wreckage of his dead mount toward her.

He towered high above her; tattered black robes billowing around his impermanent form, giant flail resting casually in his hands, as if its massive weight was nothing at all. A tall, jagged helmet encased his entire head, creating a gaping, ghoulish facsimile of a face. She stared into the gaping nothingness where his eyes should be, was surprised at how _wrong_ it felt to face a man in battle and not be able to see his eyes. It seemed somehow dishonest.

With a piercing shriek, the Witch-King gave his flail a mighty swing, sending the spiked ball at the end of the chain circling through the air. Eowyn side-stepped in time for the ball to miss her by mere inches, glanced over her shoulder to see the ball smash into the ground, shattering an abandoned shield below as if it was made of glass. She ducked down low to avoid the second swing, side-stepped again for the third. When he next raised his arm to swing the flail, Eowyn lunged forward, keeping her body bent and low to the ground, and stabbed him in the side just below his armpit.

He shrieked, guttural and savage, and lifted his free hand to smack Eowyn viciously to the ground. Sprawled on her back, winded and wheezing, eyes swimming and bones thrumming, Eowyn only just managed to roll out of the way in time to avoid the barbed ball as it thunked into the ground where her head had been only seconds before.

She scrambled awkwardly to her feet, had no time to position her feet as proper technique dictated or fix her unsteady grip on her hilt before she had to duck and turn again to avoid the flail. The Witch-King was yet to land a blow with his flail but Eowyn’s constant ducking and diving was leaving her drained, her muscles constricting painfully and her joints creaking. She needed to finish this before exhaustion made her foolish, and foolishness made her dead.

She attempted another desperate lunge, ducking beneath his arm to strike at his exposed flank. But he intercepted her attack before the tip of her blade reached flesh, wrapped his large, gauntleted hand around her neck to lift her bodily from the ground. He held her face close to his own and though the Nazgul had no breath, she could feel the air tremble between them. “You fool – no man can kill me,” he snarled.

Still dangling from his grip, she raised her spatha and sliced it through the plates of his gauntlet. The armour fell apart, his incorporeal hand disintegrating into nothingness without the gauntlet to give it form. Released from his grip, she dropped abruptly to unsteady feet and stabbed her blade into the gaping hole of his helmet’s mouth.

“I am no man,” she seethed, pushing her sword further into the empty expanse of his face.

The Nazgul did not scream, did not pierce the air with a deafening shriek, but hissed, quiet and anguished. His helmet crumpled in on itself, the metal twisting and curling as if trampled under the feet of the mighty mumakil. The Witch-King jerked and shuddered, limbs contorting in a horrifying spectacle as the black form writhed and thrashed. His ephemeral form folded in on itself until there was nothing left but scorched earth where his body had once stood.

It took a great deal of concentration to stay standing but Eowyn could not afford to fall, not yet. She hurried to her uncle, let slip a mournful whimper at the sight of crimson blood blooming beneath his prone form. Kneeling beside him, she pressed a hand to his cheek to feel his warmth. With her other hand, she carded her fingers through his hair in what she hoped was a comforting gesture.

Theoden slowly blinked open his eyes, gazed upon her with weariness and a touch of confusion.

“Eowyn,” he rasped, sputtering blood onto his lips as he spoke. “I was so worried. When you left Dunharrow, I thought you lost.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” she said, wishing she knew how to convey just how sorry she was for leaving without giving him the proper farewell. “I had to – I had to go with Aragorn, to prove myself worthy.”

“I already thought you worthy.”

She smiled at him, small and pained. “I know you did – but I had to prove it to myself.”

He returned her smile but the corners of his mouth twitched, as if maintaining the expression took a great deal of effort. “My eyes darken.”

“No… no,” she cried, bringing her hands to cradle his face. “I’m going to save you.”

“You already did.”

Tears fell, thick and hot, down her cheeks. They dropped from her chin onto his armour, leaving little shining spots of sparkling metal where the tears had washed away the blood and grime.

“Do not cry for me, I am old and my life has been well spent. My family has been my greatest joy and you,” he paused there, made sure she was looking at him squarely before he continued, “are my most valued treasure, Eowyn, my daughter.”

And then he fell still. His eyes, usually so expressive, stared blankly ahead, glassy and bare.

Eowyn cradled his head in her arms, rocked him back and forth as if she could stir life within him again through the steady movement. Her lips quivered, mouth forming soundless words. A prayer perhaps, for Theoden as he passed to the next world, or for herself, now truly fatherless. All around her, battle still raged, the cries of the dying and the clattering of metal and wood filling the air with a thunderous clamour. But for Eowyn, everything was silent save for her own weeping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	18. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nelwen gets uncharacteristically sappy while trudging through the stark wastes of Mordor. What a hopeless romantic she is! Then things get sad.

Nelwen liked pretty things. This was not a unique characteristic among the elves, who placed considerable value on things that were beautiful, skillfully crafted or spectacularly ornate. Nevertheless, Nelwen felt that her own aesthetic appreciation was particularly acute. She liked things with elegant lines, complimentary colours, things that were poetic and heart-felt, things that were grand and majestic.

Mordor was none of these things. Mordor was utterly dismal.

Trudging through the monotonous greyness of the Plateau of Gorgoroth, feet blistered and bloody, eyes burning from the acrid haze, Nelwen tried to conjour memories of sweeter sights: Lothlorien in the Spring, when the first green and gold leaves unfurled on the great boughs of the mallorn trees; the way the sunset glimmered on the water at the Grey Havens, making it look like the water was aflame; and Faramir’s gentle expression, eyes alight with curiosity and lips curled into an awkward smile, when he asked her about her favourite poets.

That last memory sent an unexpected shiver down her spine and she inwardly chastised herself for her frivolous thrill of emotion. Elves didn’t get crushes; elves didn’t feel sudden pangs of sentiment or frantic surges of passion. Elven relationships were built over hundreds of years, feelings building quietly and cautiously over time until they’d coalesced into something stable and unshakeable. Her parents had come together very abruptly, against the better judgement of all their acquaintances, and their years together had been brief and tumultuous. They hadn’t spoken now for over 700 years, bitter memories and vitriolic rants the only mementos of their relationship. Nelwen had determined from a very young age that she would not repeat their mistakes, that she would only ever give her heart away after lengthy consideration and meticulous deliberation. 

And yet – there was something about how relationships were portrayed in human literature that was… appealing. The abrupt burst of affection, the swift crescendo of feeling from simple attraction to all-consuming love, a love so fierce it _burnt_. Nelwen had never thought herself capable of such intense affection, thought herself impervious to anything so ill-advised as a crush. Nevertheless Faramir’s face kept appearing unbidden in her thoughts.

_He’s probably dead._

The words surged forward before she could suppress them, a cold, cruel voice needling at the back of her skull.

_Osgiliath has fallen. Minas Tirith is next. There is no strength among the race of men capable of stopping the forces of Mordor._

She screwed her eyes shut, as if hiding the world from sight could hide her from the taunting voice.

_And when the kingdoms of men fall, who will stop Sauron then? Elves? Your kind already flee Middle Earth, you have already given up._

“Shut up,” she murmured quietly, hand clutching at her tunic where the Ring hung below. It was now impossibly heavy for such a tiny band of gold, the weight of it causing the chain around her neck to dig into flesh, skin peeling off in tattered, bloody ribbons.

_You cannot fight; you can only hide. Vanish into thin air._

“Shut up!” she shouted, surprising herself with how hoarse and alien her voice sounded. Annamir whirled from where she walked a few paces ahead, hand grasping at the hilt of her sword, eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger. Finding nothing save the stricken face of her friend, she hurried to Nel’s side.

“What’s wrong?” 

Nelwen couldn’t think of anything to say, no words to explain what it felt like to hear the Ring sneering from inside her own brain, twisting happy memories until they were dark and bleak, prickling at the back of her skull so unrelentingly she wanted to claw at her own scalp until the whispering stopped. Instead she just shook her head, the movement coming out jerky and stiff, her body no longer responding to commands like it should.

“The Precious – it calls to the Master. Speaks truths we cannot understand,” said Smeagol, answering Anna’s question on Nel’s behalf.

Annamir cupped Nelwen’s face with her hands, forced her to make eye-contact. “Ignore it. Fight it. Do whatever you have to so you can destroy it.”

“Destroy it?” cried Smeagol, voice shrill with distress. “No, the Precious cannot be destroyed, cannot – cannot.” 

“It must,” said Nelwen, finally summoning the strength to speak, pulled from her daze by Smeagol’s panicked howling. She crouched down so she was at eye-level with Smeagol. “The Ring _must_ be destroyed.”

Smeagol’s face contorted at Nelwen’s words, changing from an expression of fear to one of utter loathing. The eyes narrowed, slanting inward, and his mouth twisted into a scowl, lips thin and teeth bared. “Stupid elf!” he hissed, “the Precious is mine, not yours! You will not destroy it!”

“The Precious is mine!” she spat then snapped her mouth shut with horror at what she had just said. She felt unshed tears sting her eyes, thoroughly ashamed of her outburst. “The Ring belongs to no-one,” she said once she’d finally managed to school herself into composure, “don’t you see, Smeagol, I’m doing this for you! Only by destroying the Ring will you be free.” 

“I don’t wants to be free,” he replied petulantly. She placed a hand on his shoulder to comfort him and was a little surprised when he recoiled; he’d never shied from her touch before. 

“You’ve forgotten what it is to be free,” she said, disappointment lacing her words; disappointment but also dread. For Smeagol’s enduring dependence on the Ring made her uneasy, made her fear for her own willpower in the face of the Ring’s pull. “You will remember, when the time comes,” she said as she stood, hoping it to be true.

Still Smeagol scowled, cold and wicked, like the first time he had looked at her in the forests of Ithilien. Maybe Annamir was right; maybe she was foolish to think she could trust Smeagol. He had, after all, tried to kill them the first time they had met. But she needed to think that he could forget the Ring, needed to think that he could rid himself of its influence. Perhaps her own desperation to believe that his fate, and therefore her own fate, was not immovable had made her blind to the very serious threat be posed. Whatever delusions she’d harboured, it was too late to worry about them now. Deep into Mordor, she had no choice but to follow the angry, perverse creature and hope that their tenuous relationship would last long enough for the Ring to be destroyed.

Falling into step behind Annamir, Nelwen continued the slow slog across the wastes of Mordor once more. Staring at Annamir’s back so she didn’t have to look at the barren wasteland, Nel pulled at any trail of thought that could distract her from the Ring’s relentless muttering.

There had been a baker in Osgiliath many hundreds of years ago who could do extraordinary things with sugar. She would spin it into delicate structures: flower stems festooned with tiny, translucent petals or woodland creatures in lively poses. She’d once made a replica of Osgiliath’s Opera House entirely out of sugar. Yes, utterly remarkable craftsmanship, that was far more worthy of Nelwen’s contemplation than the imminent destruction of all Middle Earth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	19. The Citadel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another talk-y chapter! But sometimes they’re just necessary while characters figure out what to do next. I realise that Eowyn should probably be sick with the Black Breath following her fight with the Witch-King but she’s a crucial point of view character and I need her where the action is, not recuperating for bloody ages in the House of Healing.

Rain fell upon the streets of Minas Tirith; great curtains of water that washed away the vibrant scarlet of blood, the black smeared remains of orcs, until everything was mute and grey. Water coursed down the sloped roads of the city, shallow, snaking rivers creating twisted, distorted reflections of the broken buildings in their mirrored surface.The Pelennor Fields were choked with water, hindering rescue efforts as the thick mud strove to consume all who tried to cross the battlefield. At least the rain had doused the fires in the city, keeping civilian casualties to a minimum.

With the battle won, the Pelennor Fields lay strewn with the remnants of Sauron’s armies. Orcs, trolls, men and mumakil alike lay still, eyes blank and mouths agape in dying screams now silent. They festered in the mud, broken limbs and ashen faces slowly sinking into oblivion.

But the kingdoms of men had also taken heavy losses. Nearly 2,000 Rohirrim had died, including Theoden King, and the Gondorian losses numbered at least 9,000. Many great Lords had been lost, beloved leaders and respected soldiers: Grimbold, Captain of the Westfold; Dunhere, Chieftain of Harrowdale; Hirluin of the Green Hills; Forlong, Lord of Lossarnach. Their men mourned their passing, filling the air with the funeral songs of their homelands.

Even Steward Denethor was dead. Fearing that the city was lost and hearing false reports that his sons had been killed in the fighting, he had taken his own life, set himself aflame upon a funeral pyre in the Hallows. Eowyn had seen his sons weep for his passing, their tall, proud frames bowed in misery. She understood their loss, knew the peculiar pain of grieving a father.

After the battle, Eowyn and Aragorn had met Gandalf at the gates of the city, greeted him with a great outpouring of joy. It had been several weeks since he’d left Edoras, riding hard and fast to Minas Tirith to prepare the city for war, and it was a relief to see his smiling face again. He told them of his futile attempts to counsel the Steward and his efforts to rally the soldiers of Minas Tirith with the aide of Boromir and Faramir. In return, they told him of their travels across the southern fiefdoms of Gondor, the Dead Men of the Dimholt and the vast army they had amassed to defeat the corsairs of Umbar. It was good to hear his news, to hear that Annamir and Nelwen had left the Rangers of Ithilien barely a week ago, in good health and reasonable cheer. It made her feel hopeful.

The following days were filled with activity. Aragorn had freed the Dead Men from their oath as soon as the battle was won, watched with a satisfied smile as their incorporeal forms shimmered and slipped into nothingness. He then dedicated his every waking hour to helping the injured in the House of Healing, putting his natural healing talents as a member of the Dunedain to good use.

Eowyn spent her time assisting the civilians of Minas Tirith, finding temporary shelter for those whose homes had been destroyed during the battle and reuniting families with wayward loved ones. It was exhausting work but Eowyn felt _useful_ and that was enough to keep her weary limbs moving.

A few days after the battle, a council was called to decide what was to be done next. Walking into the Tower Hall of the Citadel, Eowyn couldn’t help but marvel at the grandeur of the gold vaulted ceiling, the tall pillars of black marble, the capitals adorned with capering beasts. Eowyn had always thought Edoras’s Meduseld to be grand but the Tower Hall was more than merely grand, it was majestic, _kingly_.

At the far end of the hall, Aragorn and Gandalf stood under the imperious gaze of a long-dead king, the statue of white stone looming over them almost protectively. On the other side of the hall’s central aisle stood Eomer. He glowered at Eowyn as she entered, clearly still miffed at her sudden and unannounced departure from Dunharrow. They’d exchanged strong words when they’d reunited after the battle, although the anger in his voice had been undermined by the joy and relief that radiated from his eyes. The late Steward’s two sons stood next to the black chair, the seat of the Steward, neither daring to even look at it. They both looked utterly spent, worn to breaking point. The unrelenting years of fighting to defend Ithilien and Osgiliath had clearly taken a toll.

When Gandalf was satisfied that everyone necessary was present, he began to address the assembled, “we have achieved a great, almost miraculous, victory. However, militarily, Sauron is still the stronger and should we face him again in direct battle, he _will_ destroy us. Sauron may have suffered a defeat, but he has other forces at his disposal. What we faced on the Pelennor Fields was but a fraction of his strength, should he throw his full power against us, we will fall.” 

“So what can be done?” asked Faramir. 

“Any attempt at direct military assault will fail. All that we can do is help Nelwen and Annamir in their quest to destroy the Ring of Power,” replied Aragorn.

“How do you know they haven’t already been captured, that the Ring hasn’t already fallen into the hands of Sauron?” said Boromir, his voice gruff but also oddly sad.

“If Sauron had the Ring, we would know it,” said Aragorn.

“It’s only a matter of time,” said Gandalf, shaking his head with resignation. “Ten thousand orcs now stand between our friends and Mount Doom.” He paused then, shrugged his shoulders in a gesture of frustration and despair. “I’ve sent them to their death.”

“No,” interrupted Aragorn forcefully, “Nelwen and Annamir are both too stubborn for something as inconvenient as death.”

Eowyn found herself smiling at his words. She’d only known the two women for a few weeks but it had become clear to her during their short acquaintance that neither woman was to be trifled with. They were both capable fighters, intelligent and determined. They would not lightly abandon their quest.

“They need time, and safe passage across the Plateau of Gorgoroth,” Aragorn continued.

“And how do you suggest we accomplish that?” came Boromir’s surly voice once more.

“Draw out Sauron’s armies!” said Aragorn. “We gather our full strength and march on the Black Gates.”

“We cannot achieve victory through strength of arms – we have not the men,” said Eomer.

“You’re right. There is no chance of victory for us, but we can give Nelwen and Annamir more time if we keep Sauron’s eye fixed on us.”

The assembled group cast doubtful looks toward Aragorn. But everyone understood the importance of Annamir and Nelwen’s quest and the thought of almost certain imminent death was seemingly not enough to dissuade them from Aragorn’s plan. Mindful of the urgent necessity of destroying the Ring, no one made to object.

“Certainty of death, small chance of success – what are we waiting for?” said Eowyn with an eager grin. She’d trusted Aragorn so far and he’d never led her astray: not at Helm’s Deep, not at Dunharrow. She had no doubt that Aragorn’s plan would succeed, had even a little hope that they might survive.

“Eowyn can stay to watch over the city,” said Eomer, turning to his sister to give her a stern stare.

She looked at him dumbfounded. She supposed she should be touched that he was so concerned for her safety, instead she was just irate. Had she not proven her mettle when she defeated the Witch-King of Angmar in single combat? “Absolutely not – I am a competent warrior and I will not stand idly by while my friends fight and die.” 

“I agree with Eowyn,” said Aragorn before Eomer could speak further. “Eowyn has proven herself beyond capable. If she wishes to fight, then that is her right.” 

Delight washed over her; finally, _finally_ , someone was fighting her corner. She smiled at Aragorn to convey her thanks, pointedly ignored her brother so as to avoid the scowl that probably marred his face.

“But someone _should_ stay to watch the city. Minas Tirith needs a Steward,” said Gandalf.

All eyes turned to Boromir. As Denethor’s eldest son and heir, it fell to him to take his fathers title. He bristled at the attention, clearly uninterested in assuming the role his father had left vacant. Boromir was a man forged by battle, his body used to constant fighting. The black seat of the Steward was no place for him. “I am no Steward. I am a Captain of Gondor, a Commander of Men; I belong on the battlefield. Faramir would be better suited than I to the title of Steward.”

Faramir looked at his brother with alarm. Never in his life had he expected the title of Steward to be passed to him.

“I agree,” said Gandalf, “Faramir was an excellent pupil of mine and he will make a fine Steward. The city, and all of Gondor, will be safe in your hands.”

Faramir opened his mouth to object, settled instead on slowly nodding his head.

Their course of action agreed, Eowyn marched from the Tower Hall with strident steps, the lines of her face pulled stern and determined. She would march out again with the armies of men, fight alongside her friends and kin in defence of noble goals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	20. Carry the Burden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is short because Mordor is boring. Mordor is my least favourite part of the books, my least favourite scenes from the film and I don’t enjoy writing about it either. Boo! 
> 
> But! – having said that – I quite like this section. It’s a re-write of the scene from the film where Sam carries Frodo up the mountain like an absolute boss.

Sweat dripped down Nelwen’s face. Fat, salty globules trickled agonisingly slowly across her forehead, dribbled along her nose and then dramatically swan-dived onto the front of her tunic. A large, dark sweat-patch had formed across her chest, a fitting accompaniment to the sweat-patches at her armpits and lower back. Everything felt damp and _sticky_ , a layer of ash clinging persistently to clammy skin. 

The whole experience was entirely novel to Nelwen who had never felt so utterly disgusting in all her life. Elves did not deign to debase themselves with something as undignified as sweating. But the stifling air hung hot and heavy around them. Suffocating and sweltering, it burnt Nelwen’s throat with every ragged breath.

The cumbersome helms and black cloaks they wore did not help them bear the smothering heat. It had been another one of Annamir’s brilliant ideas to take the orcish armour from the Tower of Cirith Ungol, to hide their forms under black, tatty cloaks. The Plateau of Gorgoroth was crawling in orcs and Uruk-hai – great, bustling swarms that covered the land in swathes of black – and the orcish attire would hopefully prevent them from attracting attention. They were pretty poor disguises; anyone who looked at them closely would quickly see through the ruse. But as long as they moved fast, tried to keep as far away from the orc encampments as possible, then hopefully they would pass through the Plateau unnoticed.

Tired and clumsy from days of non-stop walking, Nelwen tripped over her own feet, fell to her knees and flung out her hands to break her fall only to mutter some choice curse words when the sharp rocks dug into soft palms. She tried to push herself to her feet but her limbs buckled instead to leave her sprawled on the rocks and dust. She made no further attempts to stand, her body rebelling against even simple requests, the Ring so heavy around her neck that even lifting her head seemed like an impossible accomplishment.

“Get up,” said Annamir, too tired to muster sympathy. She gently needled Nel’s side with the tip of her boot, realising that it was a rather poor attempt at encouragement. “Get up!” she repeated with more force. 

“I can’t,” Nelwen ground out through clenched teeth, sputtering slightly as the dust and grit made its way into her mouth.

Reluctantly, Anna knelt down at Nel’s side, knowing that it would take a remarkable amount of effort to draw herself to her feet again. “Come on,” she said, gentling patting her shoulders, “it’s not far. You just have to give – a little more.”

“There’s nothing more to give,” said Nelwen, her voice barely more than a whisper, quivering with exhaustion “I have nothing, I _am_ nothing. I can see him – with my waking eyes.” The closer they walked to Orodruin, the more troubling the images that danced across the back of her eye-balls: shadowy figures that snarled and reeled, the broken bodies of her friends and family, and always the flaming eye, focused and frightening. She screwed her eyes shut in a vain attempt to banish the horrifying images that plagued her.

“It will end, Nelly, as soon as you’re rid of the Ring once and for all.”

“It’s too far. The Ring is too heavy. I won’t make it.”

Annamir furrowed her brow, disturbed by Nelwen’s distressed tone, her pinched face and trembling limbs. Unwilling to let her friend just give up, she grabbed her arms, pulled with all her strength until Nelwen’s body was yanked upright.

“Come on Nelly – I can’t carry it for you, but I can carry you!” 

Annamir surged forwards, grabbed Nelwen around the waist and started haphazardly trying to manhandle her, armour and all, onto her shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous!” Nel cried, her elven sensibilities mildly mortified by the indignity. Nelwen squealed with surprise when her feet left the ground, limbs flailing as Anna hauled her inelegantly into the air. She kicked her feet like an excitable child when Annamir spun her theatrically, her squeal banished by giggling. With Nel’s incessant wriggling, Anna only made it a few steps before she lost her balance and tumbled to the floor.

The women hit the ground with a muffled thud, bodies entangled and limbs akimbo, and they immediately burst into maniacal giggling. Deep in the cursed land of Mordor, gamboling like children, they laughed hysterically at the absurdity of their situation, unable to control the sudden outburst of emotion even as Smeagol begged them to silence. If they were the last hope for Middle Earth, eyes streaming and noses running with inelegant snorts of laughter, then the situation was indeed dire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	21. The Black Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obviously Aragorn’s speech at the Black Gate is epic but I didn’t want to write it out word-for-word. I also didn’t want to make something else up because it just wouldn’t be as good. So I kind of bodged it so I wouldn’t have to write out Aragorn’s speech.

The black gates loomed overhead, jagged spikes, like shattered glass, piercing the air. Looking up at the towering curtain of fluted metal, streaked with stripes of black and grey, Eowyn felt an overwhelming feeling of foreboding. And she clearly wasn’t alone. To her side, Eomer’s horse fidgeted nervously, and the faces of Boromir, Gandalf and Aragorn were grim and strained. Behind them, the lines of soldiers, of Rohan and Gondor, bristled uneasily. 

“Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!” called Aragorn.

Eowyn held her breath as the black gates creaked open, uncertain as to what horror would surely emerge. A whole company of orcs, perhaps, or one of the Nazgul. Instead a tall, black figure appeared upon a miserable-looking mount, mange-ridden and sallow-eyed. He was oddly proportioned, with an abnormally elongated torso and long neck, which made him appear precariously perched on his horse.

“My Master, Sauron the Great, bids you welcome,” he said, coming to a stop.

“Tell your master the armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands at once, never to return!” boomed Gandalf, face twisted with disdain at Sauron’s messenger.

The messenger, dark and daunting, surveyed the group with a sneer. Clad in a billowing black robe and adorned with a colossal, jagged helm, his cruel, mocking mouth was the only part of him not shielded from view. The lipless mouth barely moved when he spoke. Instead his words were forced through sharp, stained teeth, making an odd hissing noise with each utterance.

“You come here with this pitiful force to face the armies of Sauron?” jeered the foul creature. “You reek with fear. And you should be afraid. For what can the armies of men do against a force a hundred, thousand strong?”

Aragorn stepped forward, shoulders back, head held high. Faramir had given him raiments of Gondor before they’d left Minas Tirith; clad in a rich blue cloak and armour bearing the white tree of Gondor, Aragorn looked every part a King. He would not wilt under the messenger’s taunting.

“And what it this? Isildur’s heir? It takes more than a broken, elven blade to make a King.”

Aragorn stared at him undaunted, unwilling to reveal to the messenger how his emotions roiled.

“Sauron knows why you are here; Sauron knows all. Your foolhardy quest is at an end. Did you really think a mere elf could stop the mighty Sauron? Know that she suffered greatly at the hands of her host. Who would have thought one so small could endure so much pain, _so much pain_.”

Finally pushed to breaking point, Aragorn gave an anguished yell. With an elegant sweep of Andúril, the messenger’s head was sent tumbling to the ground, his body slumping upon the mount’s back.

“I do not believe it; I _will_ not,” said Aragorn to the assembled group whose faces had become drawn and sorrowful at the messenger’s words.

They rode back to the lines of soldiers, turned to see the Black Gates open and the forces of Sauron march forth. Dark bodies stretched out as far as the eye could see, an impenetrable cloak of black that covered the land for miles. Eowyn felt her stomach churn, her heart stammering frantic. The overbearing anxiety she had felt before the Battle of Pelennor Fields could not compare to the sheer terror that gripped her now.

Aragorn rode the length of the soldier’s lines, rousing the morale of the soldiers with eloquent words spoken with confidence and authority. Eowyn barely heard him. He said something about the courage of men, perhaps; something about fellowship; something about making a last stand for the kingdoms of the West. Is that why she was fighting? For the kingdoms of the West? For King Theoden, who for many years had been like a father to her? For herself, to prove that she was capable of great valour? Her lips curled in a gentle smile when she realised that, no, she did not fight for valour or heroism. She fought for something much simpler and far more important. She fought because her friends were walking across Mordor with a terrible burden. And if she could relieve that burden even a little, her sacrifice would be worth it.

Aragorn returned to her side, having dismounted in preparation for their final charge, and turned to her, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “For our friends.” 

With a great rallying cry, Aragorn surged forward. Eowyn quickly followed, Gandalf, Eomer and Boromir swift at her heels. They ran across the arid ground, the great combined army of Gondor and Rohan surging behind, bellowing ferociously.

When she reached the enemy lines, Eowyn feinted left, twisted right, and brought her spatha down on an orc’s misshapen head. He crumpled to the ground with a muffled cry and she surged forward, slashing at the orcs to one side before whirling around to stab at the orcs on the other. With an astonishing display of finesse, Eowyn cut her way through Sauron’s army. In only a few short weeks, Eowyn had come to see many battles, had felled many a foe. She’d learnt quickly how to spot weaknesses in her opponents, flaws in their form, oddities in their posture which suggested historic wounds not properly healed. She exploited them effortlessly, deflecting poorly controlled swings and thrusting the tip of her blade into abscessed joints.

As she fought desperately, zealously even, she knew she would not be able to sustain her pace for long, knew that the army of man was horrendously outnumbered. They could not win. But as long as they won Annamir and Nelwen a bit more time, that was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	22. Mount Doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bloody hell! The Ring is destroyed!

Still they walked.

Annamir could barely remember a time when she didn’t just walk, when she didn’t just place one foot in front of the other in an unrelenting rhythem. There was a time she used to sleep in a bed, something soft and fluffy with cool, silken sheets. There was a time she used to recline lazily on sofas, book held idly in her hands until sleep claimed her and the book tumbled to the floor with a soft thwump. And there was a time she used to perch on tall, wooden stools in grotty taverns, swilling watered-down beer and telling farfetched stories to gullible punters.

But that time was spent a long, long time ago, even before she’d become aware of the Ring and embarked on this quest to bring about its destruction. For her entire adult life had been spent on the battlefield or holed up in miserable encampments. She was lucky in a way. Her life had been hard and punishing, and it had prepared her well for the trials she now faced.

From the corner of her eye she saw Nelwen stumble, righting herself just in time to avoid falling completely to the unforgiving ground. It was clear that she was struggling; miserable and exhausted, her pace was torturously slow, her movements erratic and jerked. Occasionally Annamir would try to strike up a conversation, try to distract Nelwen from her drudgery with outlandish tales of debauchery or thoughtful comments on literature. But maintaining a conversation required too much concentration for Nelwen, her stumbling and shaking intensifying each time she tried to talk, and so Annamir had decided it best to leave her in peace.

The closer they got to Mount Doom, the hotter it became, the more suffocating. Hot, scorching air flooded her lungs with every breath until she felt like she was drowning in fire. The two women had stripped off in an effort to alleviate the smothering heat. Their packs had been the first things to go – abandoned shortly after leaving the Tower of Cirith Ungol. Then their orcish costumes had been abandoned as soon as the snaking lines of soldiers had marched out of Mordor to some unknown battle. Then Nelwen had shucked her burgundy coat, and Annamir had started removing parts of her armour piece-by-piece. Now both women soldiered on in only their tunics and trousers.

Annamir felt oddly exposed without her armour. But then armour was of little use when she was too exhausted to fight off an attack anyway. At least they were seemingly alone in Mordor. With the orcs and Uruk-hai heading north to the Black Gates, the Plateau of Gorgoroth had been left completely empty. She didn’t know why they’d left, a dark part of her supposed that Minas Tirith had fallen and now Sauron’s forces would spread out to destroy all of Gondor and then the kingdoms beyond. But she pushed those morose thoughts aside, preferring instead to think that it was a portent of good things. Perhaps the armies of men had so thoroughly decimated Sauron’s forces that he was now forced to send reinforcements. Perhaps she was foolish to hold on to such hope, but hope was all that sustained her now.

As they climbed the steep slope of Mount Doom, Annamir lent her arm to Nelwen, who gripped desperately to her with bruising force. So faltering were Nelwen’s steps that Annamir was practically dragging her up the mountain. Peering through the sulphurous haze in front of them, watching out for rocks and pits along the slope, Annamir spotted something a short distance above them. There was an opening in the side of the mountain, an archway carved into the rock with consecutive teeth arching to a large, weather-worn keystone.

“Look, Nelly! A doorway! We’re almost there.”

Behind them, Gollum started bobbing excitedly, or perhaps anxiously, at each step. “We’ve climbed so high, so high,” said Gollum, again and again.

Annamir frowned. His mindless babbling had increased of late. She’d always found him irritating but now she found him outright creepy, his sing-song voice and penetrating eyes making her uneasy.

Suddenly he grabbed at Nelwen’s arm, pulling insistently. “Mustn’t go that way – musn’t destroy the Precious,” he keened.

“We must,” replied Nelwen weakly, tugging at her hand in a poor attempt at freeing herself. “You promised to help us, Smeagol, you promised”

With a snarl, Gollum threw himself at Nelwen, yanking her from Anna’s arm and sending her tumbling back down the mountain, her small body ricocheting off rocks as she fell. When she finally came to a stop, bloody and bruised, Gollum clambered astride her chest, curled his long, crooked fingers around her slender neck. Annamir hurried down the mountain as fast as she could, unsheathing her dagger as she ran, praying that she wouldn’t be too late to help her friend.

Nelwen’s hands pawed blindly at her side, tried to unsheathe the dagger at her hip with fingers made clumsy with exhaustion. Failing to loose her dagger, she resorted instead on wrapping her fingers around a large rock. Fueled by frustration and the remarkable drive for self-preservation, she swung the rock upward with all her strength, brought it down on Gollum’s head with a sickening crack.

His gangling, grey body toppled off of her and he cradled his bleeding head while wailing piteously. “I have not travelled all this great distance for you to kill me when I’m 15 _fucking_ feet from my goal!” she roared, body trembling with rage and irritation. Her emotions roiled off of her in waves, making her limbs shake as she pulled herself unsteadily to her feet. “Now fuck off!” she shouted. 

He craned his neck to look at her, eyes burning with hatred and rage. With a feral cry, he threw himself from the ground, sprung into the air like an animal, cornered and desperate. But Annamir reached Nelwen before him, standing between Gollum and his target, and brought her long-sword down onto his frail form. The blade sliced cleanly through his spindly body, leaving a long, bloody gash from shoulder to hip bone. Gollum made no scream, no pitiable wail, just slumped to the floor.

The two women stared at his crumpled corpse, watched as ashen blood pooled behind his torn body, as all awareness drained from his eyes. Annamir just felt relief. At her side, Nelwen looked troubled, saddened almost, even for a creature that had tried twice to kill her. 

Anna opened her mouth to offer her friend some consolation, some words of encouragement, but before she had the chance, Nelwen turned and bolted up the mountain, running up the steep slope with a swiftness that Annamir didn’t think her capable of in her exhausted state. But Nel was gripped by a trance-like determination, running unrelentingly up the incline. When she tripped over rocks or her own feet, she made no pause before throwing herself to her feet once more, careening onward up the mountain heedless of the scrapes and bruises. 

Annamir tried to follow as best she could, racing in her wake. When she ran through the doorway into Mount Doom, Nelwen was already at the end of a long walkway overhanging the mountain’s lava pit. She stood motionless, head cocked to the side as if considering something curious.

“Nelly!” Annamir called through the smoke and ash.

Nelwen gave no reply, but turned and nodded. Slowly, she pulled the chain from around her neck, lifting it so the Ring drifted lazily in front of her eye-line. Lit from the fires below, the Ring glinted almost merrily.

“What are you waiting for? Destroy it?” shouted Annamir, just desperate for it all to be over. They were _so close_ now.

Nelwen looked at her, smile unnervingly wide. “No,” she said, eerily calm.

Annamir felt her heart clench, her stomach drop. After all this time, after resisting its influence for so long, she feared that Nelwen had finally succumbed.

“No,” she repeated, “we finish this as we began it, _together_.” She held out her hand, beckoned Annamir closer. Annamir felt a sudden wave of relief, and a little twinge of shame that she’d doubted her friend’s resolve. She hurried to Nelwen’s side and gave her an enthusiastic hug, happily ignoring the way she flinched at the unsolicited physical contact.

The two women held the gold chain aloft between them, held it out over the edge of the walkway so that there was nothing below the Ring but fire. Annamir watched Nelwen's face for some sort of sign and when Nel gave a tiny, almost indiscernible nod, Annamir let go of the chain. From their vantage point at the edge of the walkway, the Ring was soon out of sight, the glinting gold indiscernible against the background of shifting yellows and oranges. For a moment, Annamir wondered whether they really had rid themselves of the Ring or whether it could have miraculously survived its plummet into the lava.

But then the mountain gave a thunderous gurgle, a terrifying sound that reverberated through the air and ricocheted off the walls. 

Nelwen stood transfixed, staring at the lava intensely, relief warring with confusion on her face, as if not entirely understanding that she was in fact, finally, free. Annamir tugged on her tunic’s sleeve in an attempt to pull her from her reverie. “We need to go – now,” she said, hasty and forceful.

Whether by Annamir’s words or her incessant tugging, Nelwen suddenly snapped out of her trance, turning from the edge of the walkway. As the mountain rumbled all around them, the two women sprinted to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	23. A Family Reunited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy reunion times!

Nelwen was warm. Not the stifling, prickling heat of Mordor but a gentle, fresh warmth. The kind of all-encompassing warmth that came from being _safe_.

Not quite ready to open her eyes, she felt the streaming sunlight through her eyelids, felt the light dancing across her face, down her bare arms. She was draped in soft sheets, bruised skin kissed by smooth silk. Taking in a deep breath through her nose, she smelt lilacs and the distinctive tang of air made fresh after a heavy rain. The smell brought with it a realisation, as sudden as it was glorious. Nelwen was _clean_.

She gingerly opened her eyes, excited at the prospect of seeing milky white skin finally freed from a crusty layer of sweat, ash and grime. She squinted at the onslaught of brilliant white light and a disgruntled squeak escaped her chapped lips.

A quiet chuckle drifted from somewhere near her feet and she peered through dry, unfocused eyes to find out who was so amused by her little squeal. Finally bringing her eyes into focus, she saw Aragorn sitting at the end of the bed, smiling broadly. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, only now that she saw him again realising just how much she’d missed him over the last month. She couldn’t remember the last time she saw him look so contented, smile wide and toothy, eyes unguarded and devoid of their usual tension. The red velvet tunic he wore was heavily crumpled and a book rested in his lap. Clearly he had been keeping a lengthy vigil at her bedside and she felt supremely touched by his seeming dedication.

She tried to sit up, wanted to embrace him, to at least touch him to check that he was real, but her limbs were still heavy from toil and she couldn’t summon the energy. Instead all she could muster was an ungainly flail with one arm. Chuckling once more, Aragorn rose from his seat, pulled it to her side, and settled again where he could grip her hand fiercely within his own.

"You're not dead," she croaked, unable to think of anything more profound.

“Neither are you,” he replied, broad smile twisting slightly with confusion at her somewhat bizarre greeting.

“Are you sure? This feels like a dream.”

“This is definitely no dream,” he assured her, accompanied with more gentle laughter. When did Aragorn become so easy with his laughter?

As if somehow sensing that she was awake (and perhaps he did, Nelwen did not fully understand the abilities of wizards), Gandalf suddenly swept into the room. He regarded her fondly, filling the room with his own booming bark of laughter, before turning to beckon someone who lingered just out of sight beyond the doorway.

Faramir entered the room, looking somewhat sheepish but face alight with pleasant surprise. He looked different out of his leather armour, more at ease. He wore a doublet of dark blue brocade over a crisp white shirt, grey trousers tucked into well-shined boots, and Nelwen was struck with how _noble_ he looked. Her heart gave a little flutter and she hoped that if anyone noticed her blush, they attributed it to her still recovering state.

“You’re awake,” he said with a little astonishment. She only managed a feeble nod in return but she hoped that her crooked smile showed him how pleased she was to see him. “I… uh… brought you this…” he said, placing a number of books on the bedside table. “You said that you hadn’t read any human poets so I thought you might find them interesting. Certainly different from elven poetry. I thought you might want to read them – once you feel better, of course.”

“Thank you,” she managed, a little embarrassed to find her eyes welling with tears, so thoroughly touched by his thoughtful gesture and generally overwhelmed at seeing her friends once more.

“Well you look like shit,” came a voice from the doorway and Nelwen looked up to see Annamir, face bruised and swollen, limping toward her while clutching on to Eowyn for support.

“I’ve been burdened with the Ring of Power for three months, what’s your excuse?” she replied with a theatrical sneer. Annamir sniggered, the sound coming up grating and dry. Clearly Annamir was in as bad a state as her. Once she was close enough, she disentangled herself from Eowyn’s supportive arms and slumped inelegantly onto the bed next to Nelwen, blithely ignoring Nel’s flinch of pain as her floundering limbs smacked against fresh wounds. Once she’d settled at her friend’s side, Annamir wrapped an arm around Nelwen’s shoulders. 

“Gandalf – tell Nelly about the battle!” she commanded, pointing an unsteady arm at him. “It sounds fucking epic. I can’t believe I missed it.”

Nelwen rested her head against Annamir’s shoulder as Gandalf recounted his tale. He told of the soldiers of Gondor holding their ground against horrifying siege engines, of the Riders of Rohan making their heroic charge into the fray, of the army of the Dead Men as they swept through the battlefield. He told of grand acts of bravery, of surpassing heroism, of tragic loss. And while listening to Gandalf’s broad, mellow tones, surrounded with her friends, _her family_ , Nelwen found herself drifting off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	24. Peace After the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter didn’t originally exist – I put it in a week after I’d finished writing the main story. But I think it’s important to look at how a soldier (i.e. Annamir) adjusts to peace after a lifetime of fighting.

Music filled the air, pulsing, pounding, a rich jangle of instruments that swung in the air and thrummed in the ears. The rolling melody was punctuated with the rhythmic stamping of feet, a timpani accompaniment to the lilting tune. Annamir clapped along with the beat with an enthusiasm born partly from joy and partly from advanced intoxication, watched as Faramir twisted Nelwen across the dance-floor, his eyes never leaving her face and the crooked smile she wore.

It had taken a significant amount of cajoling on her part to get him to ask Nelwen to dance and Annamir congratulated herself on a job well done, grinning at the sight of her two friends as they spun joyously around the hall. Nelwen’s impulsive kiss at Osgiliath had surprised her, she hadn’t noticed any particular fondness toward Faramir as they’d drudged miserably through Ithilien, but the more she watched them together, the more it made sense. His intelligence made him an even match for Nelwen, who had little patience for ignorance and tended to verbally eviscerate those she deemed to be fools. And his quiet nature complimented her elven preference toward solitude and tranquillity.

While their relationship was of course still a tentative thing, Annamir could see it being a good match, could see them travelling Middle Earth together, raising curly-haired, smart-mouthed children together, maybe even growing old together.

Oh fuck, how sickeningly domestic.

Her mouth contorted into a scowl, as if assaulted by some terrible taste, and she slinked away from the crowd and her doe-eyed friends. Stepping through an open doorway onto a wide, cool balcony, Annamir was shocked to realise that the thought of her friends settling down and starting a family unnerved her. In fact, any contemplation of family life, of squalling children and a picture-book cottage, made her feel supremely uncomfortable.

Annamir’s mother had died when she was very young, her father not too long after, and then her brothers. Their home had been destroyed when the orcs took Osgiliath and ever since then, Annamir had been on the move, marching from camp to camp as duty dictated. She had absolutely no idea how to be a part of a family, how to live in a house, carrying out mundane daily chores; all she knew was how to be a Ranger (and she was a bloody fine Ranger).

She was greatly relieved when Gandalf stepped onto the balcony, pipe at the ready, and pulled from her melancholy thoughts. He joined her where she leant against the balcony’s railing, offered her a warm smile before raising his pipe to his lips and taking a long, satisfying drag.

“It’s a wonderful night,” he noted idly between puffs.

Annamir hummed feebly in agreement.

“It’s nice to see the smiles upon their faces. When things get truly dark it is hard to believe that joy will ever again be possible. But here they are, dancing and laughing, living proof that joy can always follow the harshest trials.”

She hummed again, this time accompanied with a half-hearted nod of her head.

He frowned, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed around his pipe, at Annamir’s unexpected lack of cheer. After many years of travelling together he’d never known her to skulk to the side when there was drinking and revelry to be had. “What’s wrong?” he asked, voice muffled by the mouth of the pipe.

She shrugged, not really sure how to articulate her disquiet. “What if I don’t know how to do this?”

“Do what?”

She gestured vaguely toward the hall, the revellers dancing and drinking, faces carefree and crinkled with mirth. “Peace – not stabbing things.”

He chuckled, only half listening as he concentrated on blowing elaborate shapes with his pipe. “I’m sure you’ll still find things to stab.”

“I’m being serious, Gandalf,” she said, with enough intensity that he lifted his head to regard her carefully, his pipe poised midway to his lips. “All I have ever known is battle. All I have ever known is fighting – barracks – ambushes – sword maintenance. I don’t know how to live in a house! How to start a family!”

“And do you _have_ to do those things? Live in a house? Start a family?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t that what’s expected of me? Isn’t that what I’m supposed to want?”

“Since when have you cared about what’s expected of you?” he asked with an incredulous chuckle, coaxing a bark of laughter from Annamir. “Annamir, you have proven yourself to be of extraordinary character: strong, diligent, loyal – you will find your path. Peace is just another adventure that we all must embark upon.”

Annamir mulled over her friend’s words, cryptic as always, but encouraging nonetheless. Just another adventure? That didn’t sound too bad. Annamir liked adventures; liked to travel, liked to meet new people, liked to partake of the kind of ill-advised activities that made bloody fantastic stories when recounted later while drunk in a tavern.

“Just promise me one thing,” he continued, “promise me you won’t try to do this alone. I know you like to think that you can solve everything on your own. But it is not weakness to depend on others.”

She gave Gandalf’s arm a squeeze in silent thanks, nodded her head to show that she intended on heeding his words. Sometimes she wondered how she’d been lucky enough to meet him all those years ago in a dingy tavern on the lowest ring of Minas Tirith. Then she remembered that she didn’t believe in luck and instead she wondered what he’d seen in her that had compelled him to invite her to hunt trolls with him. Whatever fine qualities he’d seen in her, she hoped they were sufficient to guide her through whatever she faced next. 

A figure appeared in the doorway, blocking the light as it poured from the hall onto the balcony floor. Turning away from Gandalf, Annamir was pleased to see Eowyn leaning against the door-jamb, hips jutted to the side and a wolfish grin upon her face. She held out a hand toward Annamir, curled a finger beckoningly. 

Never one to turn down an invitation from a beautiful woman, Annamir gave Gandalf a parting salute before following Eowyn into the stifling heat of the hall. She pulled Eowyn into the middle of the throng of dancers, bowed theatrically, then linked arms with her to spin her around the room. While the prospect of peace was somewhat daunting, and the thought of mundane domesticity utterly terrifying, those were worries for another day. Right now she had a lively band and a talented dancing partner; everything was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	25. Return to Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter - I'm such a romantic sap! And I like an exploration of what it's like returning home to discover your home doesn't exist any more.

Slippered feet padded softly over the polished wooden floors of Rivendell’s library. The bright summer sun poured through the arched windows, casting long pillars of light across the bookshelves and illuminating the dust motes that hung in the still air. Nelwen idly ran her fingers across the tops of the books as she walked down the rows of shelves, mentally counting off the titles she had read and the titles still on her list. She had already been to her old house, stayed only long enough to deposit her pack and wash-up after her long weeks of travel, but walking through the painted halls of the library, gazing at the majestic arch of the vaulted ceiling and the delicately carved pillars, Nelwen finally felt _home_.

She paused at her favourite spot in all of Rivendell, the bay window overlooking the cloistered courtyard and the Glandagol tree, and a crooked smile broke across her face.

“What is it?” asked Faramir from over her shoulder. She turned to beckon him closer, smile broadening as he neared, then tugged him onto the windowsill. Their knees knocked as they settled on the cramped ledge, bodies pressed close to fit under the narrow arch of the window, and Nel felt a thrilled tingle at the proximity.

“This,” she said, punctuating her words with emphatic arm gestures, “is the best spot in all of Rivendell.”

“Oh really?” he questioned, one brow rising in amused scepticism.

“Absolutely – from here you can see the entire city all the way down to the Bruinen River. See that tall spire to the north?” she asked, pointing to a white, cork-screwed tower that rose from a canopy of green, “that’s the tower that graces the music hall. The crystal chandeliers inside are so brilliant; it looks like the ceiling is bedecked with stars. And see that green dome?” she pointed again, “that’s the Eldanyárë. That’s where we display historical items: remarkable examples of elven craftsmanship and pieces of exemplary beauty or historical importance. We can go there next. You’ll love it.”

She fell silent, gazing wistfully over the panorama, hands pressed against the glass as if she wanted to reach out and touch the city spread out before her. Faramir regarded her fondly, charmed by the way her face lit up at the sight of her homeland, the way her words quickened as she eagerly told him of Rivendell and her childhood spent playing under the green canopies and tearing through the white-stone streets.

“You really love this place,” he said quietly, almost sadly. Seeing the way her face shone, the way her steps danced, upon returning home, Faramir was struck with a leaden sense of dread at the prospect that she would wish to stay. They’d spent most of the two months since the destruction of the Ring together, seeing to the injured in the House of Healing, reuniting refugees with their families, organising Aragorn’s coronation. Even while working tirelessly to help in the rebuilding efforts, they still somehow managed to steal time to read to each other in the archives of Minas Tirith or walk through the tiered city’s many gardens. Nelwen had seemed so at home in Minas Tirith, such a natural addition, that Faramir had forgotten that she was an elf of Rivendell, that she would likely want to return home eventually.

“Yes – of course I do – it’s _home_ ,” she said, sounding out the last word almost reverently. But then her face sank, her smile drooping though not quite dying completely.

When Nelwen had first caught sight of her home, spotted the white towers and curled arches emerging gracefully from the mantle of emerald green trees that cloaked the Bruinen Valley, her heart had soared. There was no sight in all of Middle Earth, not the gilded Meduseld or the towering capital of Gondor, that could compare to the elegant, organic beauty of Rivendell. But walking through the haven’s streets, Nelwen was unnerved by the stillness, the impenetrable silence that seemed to smother the city. No music drifted from open windows, no laughter from the gardens. She had always found Rivendell peaceful, taken solace in its tranquillity, but now, walking through the abandoned streets, she felt _stifled_.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, noticing the abrupt change in her expression.

“No,” she answered a little too quickly. Faramir frowned, gave her a pointed look to try and draw out an honest response. “It’s just,” she shrugged, looking a little lost, “I don’t think this is my home… not anymore. My people are gone, only the buildings remain. And a city without people is no home.”

“Will you follow them? To the Undying Lands?” he asked, fearing that he didn’t really want to know the answer.

She could feel his eyes upon her as she looked out over her city, at the quiet streets and the sunlight streaming into empty houses. “Probably… eventually,” she murmured, eyes still fixed on the view outside the window. 

She felt him stiffen beside her and turned to look at his face, noted with a pang in her chest the way his face pinched, eyes strained. She reached out cautiously, took a hand in her own and ran her thumb over his knuckles. He looked down at the gesture, somewhat transfixed at the sight of her tiny hand holding onto his.

“No – I’m not going anywhere. Not when everything I care about is still in Middle Earth. Every _one_ I care about.”

He looked up at her words, smiling shyly, and took both of her hands in his. She was about to return his smile but was instead interrupted with his lips pressed to her own, gentle but eager. She felt a little light-headed, remembering a time only a few months before when she thought such simple pleasures, such sweet human contact, to be forever lost to her. When he drew back, she rested her forehead on his chest, drawing comfort from the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his body pressed so close to her own.

“Come,” she finally whispered, interrupting their quiet reverie, “there’s so much yet to show you.”

She uncurled from the sill, smoothed the crinkles from her long skirts and adjusted the belt of twisted silver around her waist. Taking Faramir’s hand in her own, she led him from the window, feet gliding so fast over the wood she seemed to be almost skipping with enthusiasm. They were half-way across the room when she suddenly stopped, turned, and hurried toward a low couch opposite their previously occupied spot on the windowsill. She bent down, swept her arms under the couch and pulled out a long-forgotten book with a triumphant smile upon her lips. She stroked the leather-bound cover, thought back to all those months ago when she’d first spied Annamir in the courtyard outside her window.

She returned to Faramir, book grasped tightly to her chest, “come on”, she said, taking his hand in her own, “I know the perfect spot we can read this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


	26. The Grey Havens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end! Thank you so much for those of you who have stuck with this Ladies of the Ring story right from the beginning to the bitter end! Considering that I wrote this as a silly joke for a friend, I am supremely touched by the kind comments I have received.

The water stretched out before them. Lit by the setting sun, wide stripes of red and orange, flecked with glimmering gold, danced and shifted across the water’s surface. The sun hung fat and heavy, a yellow disc standing proud against the deep scarlet of the sky. The view was so awash with warm hues – deep crimson and pale saffron all shimmering together – that it was impossible to tell where the water stopped and the sky began.

Standing at the docks, flanked by the grand, silver colonnades of the Grey Havens, a small group of friends assembled to say their farewells. It had taken only a few short months to bring them together, to forge them into family, but their bonds had proven unshakeable over the subsequent years.

With Aragorn established on the throne as King Elessar, the fellowship had devoted their energies to rebuilding the kingdoms of Rohan and Gondor and forging a Reunited Kingdom of men. Gandalf had acted as a trusted advisor, helping Aragorn in reorganising the kingdoms and locating assorted relics of man, long-thought lost. Finally rid of Saruman’s foul influence, Orthanc was restored to its former glory and established as a repository of historical items and heirlooms. The surrounding area was granted to the Ents who quickly saw to replanting the forests torn down by Saruman.

Aragorn made Faramir his Steward, Boromir having no interest in such a political position and preferring instead to remain Commander of Gondor’s army, and declared him Lord of Emyn Arnen and Prince of Ithilien. He also re-established the Great Council of Gondor, an advisory council consisting of his most trusted advisors, including Annamir, Eowyn, Faramir, Boromir and a number of the lords who had given him men and succour as he’d travelled through South Gondor to the Battle of Pelennor Fields.

After weeks of recuperating, followed by weeks of celebrating, Nelwen travelled to the assorted elven kingdoms to gather seeds and saplings, returning to Ithilien to replant its lush forests and verdant meadows. Stopping in Mirkwood for a time to see her father, she returned to Gondor with a company of wood-elves, the Prince of the Woodland realm among them. A new Greenwood was founded in Ithilien and a thriving elven community was established, one of the few remaining elven havens in Middle Earth. So tireless were the elves in their efforts to seed the land that soon the plush greenness of Ithilien began to encroach even on the western lands of Mordor until the Plateau of Gorgoroth was bedecked with rainbow-coloured posies.

Together, Nelwen and Faramir rebuilt the settlements of the Numenorean nobles in Emyn Arnen, from where Faramir ruled as Prince of Ithilien. Nel found the long-abandoned halls and manors, with their graceful arches and slender towers of white-stone, to be strongly reminiscent of Rivendell and happily took it upon herself to make Emyn Arnen the cultural centre of Middle Earth. Newly arriving human settlers and the elves from the new Greenwood worked together to fill the rebuilt towns with elegant architecture, beautiful art, and meticulous craftsmanship. Every courtyard was filled with music and every salon with lively debate on history and literature.

Annamir stayed for a time in Osgiliath and helped Boromir and the men of Gondor repair the beleaguered city. While never quite recapturing its original majesty or grandeur, it made Annamir immensely happy to see people return to the city once more, to hear shouting in the streets and slurred singing in the taverns.

Never one to stay in one place for too long, Annamir was soon back to her customary wandering, this time with an eager Eowyn in tow. They sailed the length of the coast from Tolfolas to Anfalas, summited every peak in the Ettenmoors, and rowed the Forest River all the way from the Grey Mountains to the Long Lake, stopping to join Nelwen and her wood-elf friends for some Feast Day celebrations that lasted for several days, many of which Annamir could only vaguely remember. Eowyn and Annamir remained constantly on the road, jumping from one adventure to the next while making frequent, lengthy visits with friends and family in Rohan and Gondor.

Two years after the destruction of the Ring, Gandalf decided that his time in Middle Earth had reached its end. Having said his farewells to Aragorn, Gandalf left from Minas Tirith for the long journey to the Grey Havens, accompanied by Nelwen and Faramir. They had been joined by Annamir and Eowyn as they travelled through Rohan, stopping for several days in Edoras at King Eomer’s insistence to partake of feasting and dancing. Then they’d passed through the Gap of Rohan and up the North-South Road into Eriador. They’d made a brief stop in Hobbiton to pick up some old friends of Gandalf’s, two half-lings with the name of Baggins. By the time they arrived in the Grey Havens, Gandalf had been on the road for a month, relishing every moment – every outrageous campfire story from Annamir, every jaunty elvish song from Nelwen – with his dear friends.

Elrond, Galadriel and Celeborn were awaiting them in the Grey Havens, standing on the docks next to a tall, majestic ship with billowing white sails. The two Baggins hobbits were first to board the ship, walking the gangway with barely a glance at the land they were leaving behind. Then Nelwen said farewell to her old mentors, Elrond, Galadriel and Celeborn, tears streaming freely from her eyes. Nel had never been one to grieve gracefully, feeling her emotions keenly and expressing them without reservation. With the three elves onboard, only Gandalf remained to say his farewells.

“Farewell, my brave friends,” he said, his voice even deeper and richer than usual, so coloured with grief. “My work has now finished and I must depart these lands. I will not say do not weep; not all tears are an evil.”

Faramir gave him a firm handshake, thanked him for being such a wonderful teacher, for helping him defend Minas Tirith and for rebuilding the kingdom of Gondor. Eowyn remained silent as she clasped his hands firmly in hers, unable to express how grateful she was for everything he had done for Rohan and for her family.

Nelwen stepped forward, hesitated for a brief moment, before gently wrapping her arms around him. He lifted a hand to the back of her head in what was almost a fatherly gesture, bowed forward to kiss the top of her head. When she pulled back from the embrace, he leant to whisper in her ear, “do not cry for me, little one, for I know the sea calls to you. We will meet again.” She tried to mask her expression as she stepped back to stand next to Faramir, hoped her tears would mask her surprise at Gandalf’s words. She avoided thinking of Valinor if at all possible, had assured her human friends that she would not be leaving them. But Gandalf was right; she had heard the call of the sea and knew that it was only a matter of time before she too would feel drawn to depart Middle Earth. Not yet though.

Then Annamir stood forward. Gazing up at her dear, old friend, Annamir felt her stomach drop, her heart clench. Annamir and Gandalf had adventured together on many occasions, and every time she had said goodbye, it had been in the knowledge that she would see him again, that he would come whirling into her life once more with an ill-advised plan and a mischievous smirk. She struggled to believe that this time, the farewell was for good. She threw herself into his arms, squeezed him with a punishing grip, and buried her head in his robes in the hope that it would dry her tears before anyone noticed them. He chuckled at the fervency of her embrace.

“I imagine your life will be quite dull now without me,” he quipped.

“Don’t be ridiculous, old man,” she replied with a wide smirk, “I have never needed you to get me into trouble.”

He barked out a laugh, loud and rough with emotion. It bounced off the empty porticoes of the Grey Havens until the whole cove seemed to be filled with mirth. With his laughter still echoing in his wake, Gandalf turned and boarded the ship.

The ship moved slowly at first out of the Grey Havens, picking up speed as it passed through the narrow cove into the wide Gulf of Lhun. The four figures left standing on the docks watched for some time, until the white sails and the silver bough of the ship were lost in the dazzling glare of the sun. Faramir looked to Eowyn, indicated with a nod of his head that they should retreat and leave Nelwen and Annamir alone, give them some space with their grief.

“Gandalf’s gone,” said Annamir after a long stretch of silence.

“Yep.”

“The fellowship is broken.”

“Yep.”

Annamir paused, tried to think of how to phrase her next comment delicately before giving up and stating bluntly. “You’re going to follow him.”

Nelwen briefly contemplated lying, deciding instead that Annamir deserved better. “Yep.” 

“You’ll take me with you, right?”

Nelwen smiled, crooked and warm. “Of course I fucking will.”

Nelwen reached into the space between them, took ahold of Annamir’s hand and squeezed it firmly. Standing at the edge of the water, hands entwined, the two women watched the light of the dying sun play atop the water. They remembered all those they had lost, all that they had endured, and contemplated all that still needed to be done. The weight of those thoughts was nearly overwhelming, nearly crushing in their intensity, but the women drew comfort from their joined hands and strength from the certainty that, no matter what trials awaited them, they would overcome them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).

**Author's Note:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


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